CHICAGO:  , 

MORRILL,  HIGGINS  &  CO.,  PUBLISHERS. 

Idylwild  Series.  Vol.  I,  No.  16,  July  10.  1802.  Issued  weekly.  Annua’  oiAri 
Entejped  in  the  Postoffice  at  Chicago  as  second-class  r, utter. - 


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ONE  ARM  WAS  AROUND  THE  HUGE  DOG’S  NECK. 


A  Modern  Quixote 

A 

STORY  OF  SOUTHERN  LIFE 


BY 


S.  C.  McCAY 


ILLUSTRATED 


CHICAGO 

MORRILL,  HIGGINS  &  CO. 


Copyright 

1892 

Morrill,  Higgins  &  Co. 


A  MODERN  QUIXOTE 


CHAPTER  I 

A  typical  spring  morning  in  the  South; 
flower  bed  and  blooming  tree  ablush  with  ex¬ 
quisite  color.  Everywhere  exuberance  of 
leaf  and  blossom  on  the  old  McNaughton 
place.  Summer,  always  glorious  in  this  re¬ 
gion  of  middle  Georgia,  is  masking  in  the 
splendor  of  her  eternal  youth,  this  once  proud 
homestead  of  a  once  proud  family. 

By  peering  through  the  arbor-vitae  hedge 
which  separates  the  “back  yard”  from  the 
front  part  of  the  grounds,  a  stranger  would 
view  a  characteristic  scene  worthy  his  notice. 
It  is  washing-day,  and  if  you  have  never  seen 
washing-day  in  the  South,  you  will  probably 
be  surprised  to  hear  it  spoken  of  as  one  of 
the  most  picturesque  scenes  this  country  can 
show. 

In  the  shadow  of  a  thick  clump  of  mul- 
7 


8 


A  MODERN  QUIXOTE 


berry  trees  (not  the  fruit  mulberry,  but  the 
umbrageous  fan-leaved  shade  trfee)  stands  a 
rustic  bench  supporting  a  number  of  huge 
tubs,  all  of  a  subdued  natural  wood  color 
which  harmonizes  with  the  general  effect  of 
the  knotty  old  tree  trunks  against  which  they 
are  leaning.  At  a  little  distance  from  the 
washing-stand,  a  black  pot,  of  very  gipsy¬ 
like  appearance,  is  standing  upon  its  three 
short,  sturdy  legs  amid  the  crackling,  flaming 
sticks,  constantly  poked  under  it  according 
to  Aunt  Viney’s  directions. 

“Washing-day,”  she  says,  “ain’t  nuthin’  to 
what  it  used  ter  wuz,  on  dis  yere  place.  Why, 
Lawd!  chile,  I  ’members,  when  my  ole  mis¬ 
sus  wuz  livin’,  it  tuk  nigh  on  ter  a  dozen  hand 
to  keep  it  gwine  on;  why,  Honey!  it  tuk  me’n 
Lucindy’n  Altoony  to  battle  de  clo’es  out 
when  dey  wuz  dun  washed;  Unc’  Ben,  you 
’members  how  many  niggers  had  to  go  for  to 
tote  de  wahter,  an’  all  dc  little  onery  wufless 
pickaninnies  on  de  place  could’n  do  nuffln 
’sides  jes’  to  keep  de  pot  bilin’.” 

The  crimson-kerchiefed,  white-turbaned 
figure  of  old  black  Viney,  as  the  reader  per- 


A  MODERN  QUIXOTE 


9 


ceives,  is  the  presiding  genius  of  the  scene. 
She  and  old  “Unc’  Ben”  are  the  sole  remain¬ 
ing  representatives  of  all  that  group  of  merry 
darkies,  young  and  old,  who,  in  happier  days, 
made  the  old  place  ring  with  melody  on  wash¬ 
ing-day.  But  alas!  Aunt  Viney  cannot  sing 
to-day;  she  goes  about  her  work  with  a  heavy 
heart.  The  old  establishment  of  the  Mc- 
Naughtons,  of  which  she  considered  herself 
a  chief  pillar,  is  hastening  to  its  fall. 

Both  Ben  and  Viney  were  born  on  this  old 
place,  and  considered  themselves  as  much 
fixtures  as  the  ivy-covered  stables,  almost 
untenanted  now,  or  the  sentinel  poplars  that 
guarded  the  garden  front ;  but  things  had  come 
to  pass  during  the  last  few  years,  here  on  the 
old  homestead,  after  which,  anything,  save 
the  deluge,  would  seem  to  them  an  impotent 
conclusion. 

Miss  Laurie — or  “Honey”  as  the  two  old 
darkies  called  her — was  the  motherless  daugh¬ 
ter  of  their  young  mistress,  who  a  few  short 
years  ago,  inherited  on  her  marriage  day  the 
flourishing  Hargrave  estate  with  all  its  belong¬ 
ings.  Willful  as  a  young  queen,  Ruth  Har- 


IO  A  MODERN  QUIXOTE 

grave  had  married  Marshall  McNaughton,then 
a  dashing  young  officer  fresh  from  the  horrors 
of  Indian  battles,  whose  brilliancy,  perhaps, 
blinded  the  young  girl  to  possible  delinquen¬ 
cies  in  her  hero.  Guardians  and  friends  op¬ 
posed  the  match  bitterly;  he  was  of  obscure 
family  and  had  risen  to  prominence  by  sheer 
personal  bravery  in  the  service.  His  educa¬ 
tion  was  defective,  but  his  manner  charming. 
Had  her  parents  been  alive,  they  would  prob¬ 
ably  have  prevented  the  marriage,  but  this 
dainty  rose-leaf  of  a  woman  had  all  the  fire 
of  the  South  in  her  veins,  and  opposition 
from  those  about  her  fanned  her  resolution 
into  a  blaze. 

She  married  him  with  great  ceremony,  and 
installed  her  handsome  husband  as  master  of 
the  vast  old  estate,  with  all  its  acres  and 
slaves.  Perhaps,  but  for  one  disastrous 
event,  the  world  would  have  been  obliged 
to  confess  itself  at  fault;  for,  whereas 
it  had  predicted  great  misery  from  the 
mesalliance ,  the  early  years  of  the  married 
life  of  the  McNaughtons  were  an  idyl  of 
happiness.  When  little  Laurie  was  about 


A  MODERN  QUIXOTE 


II 


four  years  old,  came  talk  of  that  tragical  mis¬ 
take,  the  “Mexican  war.”  It  appealed  to  the 
military  side  of  Marshall  McNaughton’s  ad¬ 
venturous  spirit,  which  rose  to  the  occasion, 
and  he  was  soon  mounted  and  on  the  way, 
with  a  body  of  well-equipped  followers,  to 
the  Rio  Grande;  his  enthusiastic  wife  applaud¬ 
ing  his  patriotism,  and  standing  with  her 
little  daughter  by  her  side  to  wave  him  a 
“good-bye.”  This  was  the  fatal  step;  the  life 
of  the  camp  and  field  was  what  his  soul  loved, 
but  it  spoiled  him  forever  for  the  higher  life 
of  home. 

With  the  best  that  was  in  him  he  did  hom¬ 
age  to  his  beautiful  wife,  and  under  her  influ¬ 
ence  he  might  still  have  been  saved,  but  fort¬ 
unately  for  the  world’s  reputation  for  wis¬ 
dom,  and  everlastingly  unfortunate  for  him, 
she  died  soon  after  his  return,  leaving  her 
little  daughter  to  mock  him  with  the  lost 
mother’s  face  at  every  turn,  and  the  world’s 
“I  told  you  so”  was  vindicated. 

It  seemed  as  though  while  happiness  might 
have  saved  this  weak,  generous  nature,  sorrow 
had  wrecked  it;  old  habits  returned;  early 


12 


A  MODERN  QUIXOTE 


training  asserted  itself,  and  he  went  back  to 
the  society  of  associates  from  whom  the  influ¬ 
ence  of  his  wife  had  alienated  him  for  a  time. 

Notable  among  these  was  Hank  Staples,  a 
common  fellow,  but  a  sort  of  boon  com¬ 
panion,  who  had  been  with  McNaughton  in 
his  Mexican  campaign,  and  who  was  enabled, 
by  a  mere  chance,  and  without  any  great  dar¬ 
ing  on  his  own  part,  to  save  the  major’s  life 
on  one  occasion  when  the  young  officer’s  mad 
recklessness  had  placed  it  in  jeopardy.  This 
was  sufficient  to  win  him  a  certain  place  in 
the  warm  heart  of  his  patron  from  which  no 
revelation  of  meanness,  no  ill-bred  presump¬ 
tion  could  dislodge  him.  Many  people  whis¬ 
pered  that  if  the  unsuspecting  major  ever  had 
his  eyes  opened  to  a  fact  that  was  long  ago 
patent  to  every  one  else — namely,  that  Hank 
Staples  had  presumed  to  fall  in  love  with  his 
pretty  daughter — there  would  be  an  explo¬ 
sion  of  wrath,  after  which  it  would  be  diffi¬ 
cult  to  find  the  remains  of  Mr.  Staples.  But, 
strangely  enough,  he  did  not  see  it.  He  had 
a  tender,  almost  reverential  regard  for  little 
Laurie,  but  it  was  not  able  to  save  him  from 


A  MODERN  QUIXOTE 


13 


his  degrading  excesses;  and  just  strong  enough 
to  drive  him  back  to  seek  oblivion  of  his  mis¬ 
conduct  when  she  looked  at  him  with  her 
mother’s  eyes.  And  so,  during  the  swift 
years  in  which  she  was  growing  into  a  beauti¬ 
ful  womanhood,  he  had  gone  down  the  whole 
scale — had  sunk  from  the  wealthy  owner  of  a 
fine  old  plantation  and  all  its  accessories,  to 
the  possessor  of  a  grand  house  with  some  fields 
around  it  which  he  had  not  the  means  to  cul¬ 
tivate.  Slaves,  acres  and  horses  had  gone, 
one  by  one,  each  new  sale  being  followed  by 
a  more  prolonged  orgy  with  Hank  Staples 
and  his  other  friends. 

Perhaps  it  was  a  certain  loyalty  to  the 
choice  of  the  young  mistress,  perhaps  it  was 
due  to  that  empire  over  all  hearts,  which,  in 
all  his  downward  career,  Marshall  McNaugh- 
ton  never  lost — but  something  bound  the  two 
old  servants  to  the  interests  •  of  the  master 
with  an  unquestioning  devotion. 

“It’s  Hank  Staples  and  all  dat  trash  what 
am  gwine  to  ruin  my  po’  Mars’r,”  was  the 
only  reasoning  their  true  hearts  would  admit. 

“Honey  soon  be  a  grow’d  young  lady,  Sis’ 


A  MODERN  QUIXOTE 


Viney.  ’Pears  like  ’taint  longer’n  yestiddy, 
her  ma  wuz  runnin’  ’round  yere  dis  like  her; 
dey’s  jes’  as  much  like  one  or  nudder  as  two 
black  peas  is,”  mused  Uncle  Ben,  leaning  over 
to  knock  the  ashes  out  of  his  pipe;  for  just 
then  they  caught  sight  of  Laurie’s  pale  pink 
muslin  through  the  bushes,  as  she  ran  in  her 
childish  way  down  the  garden  path. 

“Yes,  tank  Gawd!”  responded  Aunt  Viney, 
“her  ma’s  dresses  jes’  fit  her;  an’  dat  yonder 
pink  muslin,  what  young  miss  use  ter  love, 
kase  de  major,  he  say  she  look  jes’  like  a  little 
chinquepin-rose  in  it,  look  jes’  ’zactly  same 
on  Honey,  an’  she  ain’t  done  nuffin  to  it  cep’n 
jes’  put  it  on.  Dat’s  de  last  one  of  ’em,Unc’ 
Ben,”  she  went  on  with  a  dolorous  sigh,  “and 
de  Lawd  know  whar  she  gwine  to  git  no 
mor’.” 

She  thought  in  silence  for  a  minute,  and 
then  added,  “What’s  de  use  o’  bein’  purty  if 
you  ain’t  got  no  clo’es?” 

This  was  a  poser  which  Uncle  Ben’s  mas¬ 
culine  mind  could  not  grapple  with.  He  only 
shook  his  head. 

“Well,”  he  said  presently,  “sumpin’  got  to 


A  MODERN  QUIXOTE 


15 


be  done,  Sis’  Viney;  Honey  be  a  havin’  bo’s 
arter  while’n  den  she  be  a  wantin’  yearbobs 
and  a  heap  o’  things  what  she  aint  nebber 
been  study’n  ’bout  befo’.” 

“Humph!”  responded  Aunt  Viney  scorn¬ 
fully,  “dat  show  what  fools  men-folks  is; 
Honey  got  mo’  bo’s  now  dan  she  kin  shake 
a  stick  at.” 

This  was  hyperbole;  Laurie  had  only  one 
acknowledged  beau  at  this  time;  but  a  woman 
who  wouldn’t  exaggerate  a  little  on  that 
theme  isn’t  half  a  woman.  “Mas’r  Walter 
Marlowe  dead  in  lub  wid  Honey  ’n  Honey  lub 
him  too,  but  she  don’  know  it  yit.” 

“Bress  de  Lawd !  yer  don’  say  so,  Sis’ Viney. 
Mas’r  Walter  in  lub  wid  our  Honey!  Yah! 
Yah!  our  little  Honey!  Why,  dey  allers  play 
togedder  since  dey  wuz  little  chillun — but 
hold  on!  Sis’  Viney,  yo’  femining  min’  don’ 
take  in  de  sitiwation.  How  Dr.  Marlowe’s  son 
gwine  to  marry  our  Honey  when  de  ole  gem’- 
man  he  kaint  git  ’long  wid  de  major?  Don’ 
you  know  Honey’s  pa  ain’t  nebber  been  to 
hear  de  doctor  preach  since  young  miss  die, 
and  he  kum  over  yere  to  kin’  o’  comfort  us 


i6 


A  MODERN  QUIXOTE 


like,  an’  den,  mas’r  he  jump  up  outen  his 
cheer’n  he  ’lowed  he  did’n  want  ter  hear  no 
sich  nonsense;  an’  ef  de  Lawd  did’n  want 
him  to  go  to  de  debbil,  what  fer  he  take  ’way 
de  only  one  what  could  save  him?  And  den 
he  went  outen  de  house  an’  kep’  walkin’  ’n 
walkin’,  all  day  out  in  de  fields,  by  hissef; 
don’  yer  recollec’  dat,  Sis’  Viney?  An’  so,” 
he  went  on,  “I  ’lows  dat  if  de  doctor  is  good 
way  down  in  his  heart,  he  ain’t  gwine  to  be 
willin’  for  his  only  son  to  mah’y  de  daughter 
of  a  man  what  talks  ’gin  ’ligion.  No,  ole 
’oman,  I  reckin  you’s  out  in  yer  kalklations 
fur  wunst.” 

“Shucks!”  Aunt  Viney  ejaculated;  “don’  yer 
know  ef  Mas’r  Walter  Marlowe  want  ter  do 
anyting  he  gwine  ter  do  it;  an’  sides,  de  doc¬ 
tor  he  tink  powerful  sight  o’  Honey;  an’  he 
do  anyting  fer  dat  boy.” 

“Yes,”  consented  Uncle  Ben,  “Mas’r  Wal¬ 
ter,  he  powerful  fine  young  gem’man,  but  his 
ma  and  all  his  folks’ll  be  ’gin  his  mahy’in  us 
what  ain’t  got  no  money.  Why,  dere  ain't  no 
fambly  in  de  county  cep’n  what’d  be  proud 
to  hab  him  fur  dere  daughters.” 


A  MODERN  QUIXOTE 


17 


“Now  you’s  hit  de  nail  on  de  head  at  las’,” 
assented  the  practical  Viney;  “dat’s  what  I 
’low  to  myself;  Mas’r  Walter’s  ma,  she 
powerful  proud;  ’deed  she  is.” 

At  this  point  the  dialogue  was  cut  short  by 
the  report  of  a  rifle  from  the  direction  of  the 
river  which  was  hidden  from  view  by  the  thick 
spring  foliage,  and  towards  which  Laurie  had 
gone  a  few  minutes  before. 

Without  a  word  further  than  a  profane  ex¬ 
clamation  from  Aunt  Viney,  both  started  in 
the  direction  of  the  sound.  Aunt  Viney  had 
soon  reached  the  bank  and  signaled  that  it 
was  all  right.  A  beautiful  white  bird,  called 
by  the  negroes  the  “white  heron,”  was  beat¬ 
ing  his  snowy  wings  in  hopeless  conflict  with 
the  tide  which  bore  him  rapidly  down  the 
stream.  On  the  bank  also,  though  some  dis¬ 
tance  away,  stood  the  tall,  lithe  figure  of  young 
Marlowe  concealed  partly  from  view  by  the 
thick  bushes.  He  was  busily  engaged  in  ex¬ 
amining  the  lock  of  his  rifle  and  reloading  it 
for  further  use.  Laurie,  who  had  not  seen 
him,  stood,  wringing  her  hands  in  sympa¬ 
thetic  pain,  as  she  watched  the  beautiful  creat- 


18  A  MODERN  QUIXOTE 

ure  float  down  the  stream,  with  the  death 
wound  in  its  breast.  She  had  not  dreamed 
that  any  one  was  near  (as  it  was  a  school- 
day  at  the  college  of  S — near  by)  until  the 
loud  bang!  made  her  look  up  from  her  ham¬ 
mock  too  late  to  avert  the  tragedy.  At  a 
sign  from  his  master  a  large  brown  settei 
sprang  into  the  water,  seized  the  huge  bird, 
now  dead,  in  his  mouth,  and  laid  it  at  Lau¬ 
rie’s  feet.  The  young  fellow  in  the  mean¬ 
time,  by  a  succession  of  leaps  from  rock  to 
rock,  had  also  gained  her  side,  and  ground¬ 
ing  his  rifle  with  one  hand  pulled  off  his  cap 
with  the  other.  What  a  handsome  face  it 
was!  bright  and  smiling  now,  for  he  was  sure 
that  he  had  pleased  the  capricious  little  lady. 

“Look  what  I  have  shot  for  you,  Laurie!” 
pointing  with  his  cap  to  the  bird  at  her  feet ; 
“you  said  you  wanted  a  white  wing  to  make 
a  fan  for  commencement  and — ” 

“Oh!  you  bad  boy;  how  could  you  do  it?” 
she  exclaimed  with  a  little  sob,  and  refusing 
his  proffered  hand. 

“What!  you  don’t  want  it?  Well,  by  Jove! 
ingratitude,  thy  first  name  is  Laurie!”  replied 
the  poor  fellow  crestfallen. 


A  MODERN  QUIXOTE 


19 


“G'way  from  dar!  g’way  from  dar!” 
screamed  Aunt  Viney  from  her  position  in  the 
bushes,  as  the  dog  was  about  taking  the  bird 
in  his  mouth  again.  She  ran  to  it,  and,  kneel¬ 
ing  down,  spread  the  large  white  wings  out 
upon  the  ground.  This  was  too  much  for 
Laurie;  she  had  long  wanted  just  such  a  fan 
as  these  beautiful  wings  would  make;  she 
would  not  have  had  the  peerless  white  thing 
murdered  for  her  for  worlds,  had  she  known 
it;  she  had  a  tender  little  heart,  that  loved 
every  living  thing  of  field  or  stream.  She 
looked  down  on  the  beautiful  plumage;  the 
bird  was  dead,  and  the  wings  were  so  lovely; 
she  began  to  relent. 

Walter  saw  his  advantage,  and,  leaning  his 
rifle  against  a  tree,  knelt  down  also,  and 
helped  Viney  to  display  the  trophy.  “Now!” 
he  exclaimed,  “cruel  woman,  how  does  that 
strike  you?  Aren’t  they  handsome ?”  She  was 
not  angry  now,  but  when  he  looked  up  at  her 
he  was  shocked  to  see  that  her  eyes  were  full 
of  tears.  “O  Walter,  I  am  so  sorry  you  killed 
it,  but  it  was  very  kind  of  you  to  give  it  to 
me;  indeed  I  do  thank  you.” 


20 


A  MODERN  QUIXOTE 


“Reck’n  I’ll  jes’  take  it  up  to  de  house  and 
dry  out  de  wings  fur  yer,  Honey,”  remarked 
the  practical  member  of  the  party. 

“Yes,  you  can  go,  we  don’t  want  you,”  said 
Walter.  “I  will  walk  back  with  Laurie  in  time 
for  dinner.”  He  and  Viney  had  always  been 
the  best  of  friends;  she  would  let  him  say 
anything  to  her. 

“Nebber  min’,  young  man,”  she  replied,  as 
she  shouldered  the  huge  bird  and  started  to¬ 
wards  the  house.  “You’s  jes’  de  wustest  boy 
in  dis  yere  town;  you  knows  you  is;  if  you 
don’  stop  dem  yere  larks  o’  yourn,  you  ain’t 
nebber  gwine  to  heb’n  long  side  o’  yo’  pa.” 

They  did  not  hear  her  “Yah!  Yah!”  after 
she  considered  herself  at  a  safe  distance; 
“Mas’r  Walter  de  purtiest  man  I  eber  see.  I 
hope  he  gwine  ter  mah’y  Honey’n  take  her  up 
to  his  big  house,  kase  I  don’  know  what 
gwine  ter  kum  o’  her  ef  her  pa  keep  goin’  on 
in  dis  yere  awful  way  o’  hisen;”  which  proves 
that  Aunt  Viney  was  something  of  a  woman 
of  the  world  in  her  way.  Could  she  have 
divined  what  took  place  after  she  left  them, 
she  would  have  considered  her  brightest  dream 
realized. 


CHAPTER  II 


Laurie  must  have  forgiven  the  young  fellow 
for  killing  the  bird,  for  they  were  strolling 
along  the  romantic  little  river’s  brink  in  an 
amicable  way,  the  little  flickers  of  shadow 
and  sunlight  dancing  upon  them  as  they 
walked.  He  had  his  gun  over  his  shoulder 
and  the  brown  setter  Carlo  amused  himself 
by  running,  now  before,  now  behind  them, 
but  always  keeping  them  in  sight. 

“What  are  you  doing  out  of  college  to-day? 
I  did  not  expect  to  see  you  on  Friday;”  she 
asked  him,  trying  to  look  demure;  but  she 
could  not  hide  from  this  tall,  handsome  fellow, 
as  she  looked  up  at  him,  that  she  was  glad 
to  be  surprised,  and  supremely  happy  to  have 
him  there  walking  beside  her,  when  so  many 
girls  as  pretty  as  she,  and  far  more  fortunate 
in  every  other  way,  would  have  welcomed 
him  proudly.  “O!  you  truant!”  she  went 
on,  while  the  happy  smile  danced  in  her  eyes, 
21 


22 


A  MODERN  QUIXOTE 


“I  thought  you  were  working  for  the  valedic¬ 
tory  this  year;  you  know  too,  how  much  we 
all  counted  on  you;  have  you  given  up?” 

“Well;  sit  down  here  on  this  rock,  and  I 
will  tell  you  how  it  is,”  he  said  at  last.  She 
seated  herself  with  a  little  laugh  of  happiness, 
and  he  chose  a  lower  place,  so  that  he  sat  at 
her  feet,  for  he  wanted  to  see  her  face  while 
he  told  her.  He  looked  so  handsome  as  he 
sat  there,  leaning  towards  her,  in  his  eager 
way,  the  morning  sunlight  shining  in  his  face. 

A  brilliant  face  it  was,  with  the  clusters  of 
dark  hair  thrown  back  from  the  forehead,  and 
the  gleam  of  snowy  teeth  and  flashing  eyes. 
It  was  a  beauty  to  which  perfect  health,  per¬ 
fect  happiness,  and  a  generous  heart  each 
lent  a  share.  There  was  one  thing  which  a 
friend  of  Walter  Marlowe  would  have  elimi¬ 
nated  from  that  face,  but  which,  to  the  roman¬ 
tic  young  girl  beside  him,  was,  perhaps,  its 
greatest  charm;  it  was  a  certain  look  of  reck¬ 
lessness,  born  of  an  adventurous  spirit  and 
excessive  physical  courage,  which  won  cre¬ 
dence  for  many  tales  of  midnight  escapade 
connected  with  his  college  life. 


Leighly,  John  Barger,  1895- 
Graphic  studies  in  climatology,  i- 
By  John  B.  Leighly. 

{In  California.  University.  Publications  in  geography.  Berkeley, 
1926-  28cm.  v.  2,  p.  [55] — 71,  [387]-407;  diagrs.) 

Bibliographical  foot-notes. 

Contents. — I.  Graphic  representation  of  a  classification  of  climates. — 
II.  The  polar  form  of  diagram  in  the  plotting  of  the  annual  climatic 
cycle. 


1.  Climatology.  i.  Title. 


Title  from  Univ.  of 


A  26-142  Revised 
Calif.  Library  of  Congress 
tr28e2] 


A  MODERN  QUIXOTE 


23 


True,  there  had  never  been  a  hint  of  any¬ 
thing  dishonorable  attached  to  his  name,  even 
in  his  wildest  frolics,  but  he  was  classed 
among  the  wild  fellows  of  the  college.  Per¬ 
haps  the  town’s  people  were  more  lenient  in 
their  judgment  of  him  than  of  the  others,  for 
he  had  lived  always  in  their  midst  and  was 
known  to  them  all  from  childhood.  He  had 
evidently  forgotten  what  he  was  going  to 
say;  he  sat  looking  into  her  face  in  such  an 
unusual  way  that  for  the  first  time  in  his  pres¬ 
ence,  she  felt  her  cheeks  begin  to  tingle. 

“Well,”  said  she,  pulling  some  little  grasses, 
in  a  nervous  way — “why  don’t  you  tell 
me?” 

“O!  that’s  so — well,  I  was  just  going  to 
say  that  the  honors  were  distributed  this 
morning,  and  a  lucky  fellow,  whom  you  know, 
has  come  in  for  the  valedictory;  so  there  isn’t 
anything  more  to  do  at  the  college  this  morn¬ 
ing,  and  I  thought  I  would  take  a  stroll,  and 
see  if  I  could  find  anything  to  shoot.” 

“O!  Walter,  I’m  so  glad!”  cried  Laurie,  all 
her  self-consciousness  gone  now.  “Kneel 
down  here  and  be  crowned,  sir.”  He  dropped 


1 


24 


A  MODERN  QUIXOTE 


on  one  knee  and  she  went  through  the  panto¬ 
mime  of  crowning  him. 

They  were  laughing  and  talking  in  that 
happy ,  foolish  way  that  marks  so  brief,  so 
fleeting  an  epoch  of  life;  both  were  beautiful, 
young,  and  in  love. 

“Have  you  thought  of  your  valedictory 
speech?” 

“Oh!  yes,”  he  said,  “I  have  been  rehearsing 
it  as  I  came  along.  I  shall  get  through  it  all 
right  if  there  is  one  person  in  the  audience.” 

“Rather  a  small  audience  otherwise,”  put 
in  Laurie. 

“And  if  it  pleases  her,  I  don’t  care  for  the 
rest,”  he  went  on,  scorning  to  notice  the  in¬ 
terruption.  “Do  you  know  who  that  is?” 

“How  should  I  know?”  returning  to  her 
grasses  again. 

“She  will  be  the  prettiest  girl  in  the  house, 
and  she  will  carry  a  white  wing  for  a  fan.” 

“Oh!  did  you  have  that  speech  rehearsed 
too?” 

“Of  course,  and  engaged  the  heron  to  come 
here  and  be  shot.  But,  Laurie,  there  is  some¬ 
thing  else  on  my  mind  this  morning  a  great 


A  MODERN"  QUIXOTE 


2  5 


deal  more  important  than  that.  Come,  let 
us  walk  on  to  that  spot  further  down  where 
it  is  so  shady  and  cool,  and  I  will  tell  you 
about  it.” 

Viney  thought  they  looked  very  handsome 
and  very  happy,  an  hour  or  two  later,  when 
she  looked  up  from  her  work  and  saw  him 
leave  her  at  the  garden  gate,  and  stop  again 
when  he  was  almost  out  of  sight,  to  blow  a 
kiss  to  her  from  his  finger  tips.  Laurie  stood 
still  and  watched  him  until  she  could  no 
longer  get  a  glimpse  of  his  figure,  and  then, 
all  in  a  minute,  down  came  a  flutter  of  pink 
muslin  among  the  husks  of  the  corn  Aunt 
Viney  was  preparing  for  dinner;  •  two  little 
white  arms  were  around  her  neck,  and  her 
darling’s  love  story  was  sobbed  out  in  happy 
tears  upon  her  faithful  old  bosom. 

“Oh!  mammy!  Walter  loves  me;  he  loves 
me  more  than  anybody  else  in  all  the  world ! 
He  told  me  so,  and  I  am  going  to  marry  him 
on  commencement  day.  Oh,  mammy  dear, 
T  am  so  happy!  I  love  him  so  much.” 

The  old  nurse  had  taken  her  darling  into 
her  arms,  and  patted  her  gently,  as  she  used 


26 


A  MODERN  QUIXOTE 


to  do  to  hush  her  infant  crying.  She  was, 
herself,  too  full  to  speak,  for  a  moment. 
This  was  the  dream  of  her  life;  Honey  would 
be  happy  and  rich.  She  leant  over,  still  hold¬ 
ing  Laurie  in  her  arms,  and  picked  up  the 
straw  hat  that  had  fallen  on  the  ground  and 
smoothed  out  the  ribbons  with  a  loving 
touch.  Then  she  tried  to  raise  the  dear  face 
from  her  shoulder.  The  girl  was  still  crying 
softly,  for  very  joy,  but  even  these  happy 
tears  pained  the  tender  old  heart.  % 

“Why,  what  make  you  cry  so,  Honey?  Ef 
you’s  happy,  you  ought  to  be  laughin’.  I’s 
powerful  glad  you’s  gwine  to  mah’y  Mas’r 
Walter;  you’ll  hab  lots  o’  purty  dresses,  an’ 
breas’pins  to  war’  ebbery  Sunday,  an’  ole 
Viney’ll  set  up  in  de  gal’ry  an’  watch  you 
sittin ’  in  de  Marlowe’s  pew.  Yo’  pa  he 
cornin’  home  to  his  dinner  purty  soon  an’  he 
mustn’t  find  his  baby  cryin’  nohow.  You 
jes’  run  ’long  while  I  gits  de  dinner  ready  and 
bresh  out  yer  ha’r,  an’  tell  him  all  ’bout  it, 
when  he  comes;  I  spec’  he  be  powerful 
proud.” 

But  the  major  did  not  return  to  dinner  that 


A  MODERN  QUIXOTE 


27 


day;  supper  time  came — the  early  supper 
time  of  the  country  houses — and  as  he  was 
still  away,  they  took  the  simple  meal  with¬ 
out  him.  It  was  not  unusual  for  him  to  re¬ 
main  in  town  until  late  in  the  evening. 

Laurie  went  to  her  little  chamber  all  white 
and  flower-scented,  as  such  a  maiden’s  room 
should  be,  but  she  did  not  go  to  sleep  as 
usual;  she  sat  down  on  the  side  of  her  snow- 
white  cot  in  the  fair  twilight  of  the  spring, 
her  dark,  glorious  hair  falling  about  her,  and 
dreamed  her  waking  dream,  more  sweet  than 
sleep  could  give.  While  sitting  there  she  was 
aroused  from  her  reverie  by  her  father’s  foot¬ 
step  sounding  in  the  room  below.  It  was, 
still,  quite  early  in  the  evening  and  her 
thoughts  would  not  let  her  sleep. 

She  threw  around  her  a  wrapper  of  some 
soft,  white  material  and  stole  quietly  down¬ 
stairs  again.  She  paused  at  the  dining-room 
where  the  major  always  loved  to  take  his 
pipe  in  the  evening.  Uncle  Ben  had  brought 
in  the  candles  and  wheeled  the  master’s 
leather  arm-chair  to  its  accustomed  place  by 
the  hearthstone;  for  the  nights  were  still  a 


28 


A  MODERN  QUIXOTE 


little  chilly,  though  the  spring  was  well  ad¬ 
vanced.  His  pipe  and  a  decanter  of  brandy 
stood  on  a  small  table  at  his  elbow.  He  had 
poured  out  a  glass,  but  scarcely  tasted  it. 
There  was  a  haggard  expression  on  his  hand¬ 
some,  dissipated  face  quite  new  to  Laurie. 

He  lit  the  pipe,  and  looked  around  once  or 
twice,  as  though  in  search  of  something  or 
some  one;  presently  the  fire  died  out  of  it, 
and  he  laid  it  down  upon  the  table  unfinished. 
What  was  the  matter  with  the  pipe  to-night? 
What  was  the  matter  with  the  brandy? 

She  must  have  known  what  it  was  he 
missed;  for  presently  her  arms  were  about 
him  and  a  warm,  rosy  cheek  was  laid  against 
his.  “Is  that  you,  Honey?”  he  asked  laugh¬ 
ing;  and  reaching  up  an  arm  he  pulled  her 
down  into  his  lap. 

“Come  here  and  sit  on  your  old  daddy’s 
knee,  and  tell  him  what  you’ve  been  doing 
all  day.” 

Laurie  passionately  loved  her  father-;  to 
blame  him  was  to  lose  her  favor  entirely,  and 
as  a  great  many  did  blame  him  very  severely, 
she  kept  aloof  from  a  great  many  houses 


“WALTER  WAS  HERE  THIS  MORNING,  PAPA,”  SHE  BEGAN. 


A  MODERN  QUIXOTE 


29 


where  she  would  have  been  welcomed  for  her 
mother’s  sake,  but  where  she  knew  that  her 
father  was  not  liked. 

To  sit  on  his  knee,  and  get  her  arm  around 
his  neck  was  easy  enough;  she  was  used  to 
that;  but  to  tell  him  all  that  had  happened 
that  day  was  not  so  easy.  She  looked  into 
the  fire  for  a  moment  and  began  running  her 
hands  through  his  hair.  “Walter  was  here 
this  morning,  papa,”  she  began;  managing  so 
that  he  could  not  see  her  face. 

“Well — that’s  no  news,  tell  me  somethin’ 
else.” 

“Well,  he’s  got  the  valedictory,  papa,  and 
he  gave  me  a  beautiful  wing — for  a  fan,  and 
he  wants  me  to  go  to  commencement — papa 
— and  hear  him  speak.” 

“Well,  Honey,  you  are  goin’  ain’t  you? 
Walter’s  a  fine  young  fellow;  I’m  glad  he’s 
got  it.” 

“Yes,  papa,  but  if  I  go,  you  must  get  me  a 
new  white  dress.” 

“Well,  I’ll  see  about  it,  pet,  I’ll  see.” 

“But,  papa,  I  must  have  it  soon,  for  mammy 
and  I  must  make  it  before  commencement.” 


3° 


A  MODERN  QUIXOTE 


“Well  you  shall  have  it,  baby;  you  shall 
have  it.” 

“But,  papa — ” 

“Why, what  ails  my  pet?  Is  there  somethin’ 
else  you’re  wantin’?  Speak  out,  Honey,  your 
old  daddy’ll  do  anything  to  make  you  happy. 
There  won’t  be  no  girl  there  that’ll  hold  a 
candle  to  my  Laurie,  I’ll  bet.  That’ll  be  a 
great  day  for  you,  when  your  friend  gits  the 
first  prize,  eh?  You  always  did  bet  on  Wal¬ 
ter,  didn’t  you,  Honey?” 

“Yes,  dear,  it  will  be  the  greatest  day  of  all 
my  life,  for  it  will  be  my  wedding-day.  That 
pretty  white  dress  will  be  my  wedding-dress — 
for  Walter  loves  me,  oh!  so  dearly,  and 
asked  me  to  marry  him  on  that  day.  You 
won’t  say  no,  dear  daddy?  I  love  him  so!  I 
love  him  so!” 

The  arms  went  closer  about  his  neck,  and 
the  rosy  face  was  pressed  hard  against  his 
shoulder. 


CHAPTER  III 


Aunt  Viney  was  right  when  she  opined  that 
“Mas’r  Walter’s  ma”  would  be  the  stumbling 
block.  While  her  husband  loved  this  son,  as 
the  dearest  gift  of  providence,  she  idolized 
him,  but  still  she  worshiped  him  in  her  own 
proud  way.  Though  her  will  in  all  great 
crises  bent  before  the  stern  strength  of  purpose 
in  her  husband’s  character,  still  she  was  a 
woman  of  strong  opinions,  strong  feelings  and 
prejudices.  Walter  was  her  only  living  child, 
and  would  inherit  through  her  an  independent 
fortune.  She  saw  that  he  was  handsome,  in¬ 
telligent  and  spirited,  and  built  boundless 
hopes  upon  his  future;  consequently,  his  mar¬ 
riage  would  be  a  matter  of  supreme  moment 
with  her.  She  believed  in  love  matches,  for 
her  own  had  been  one.  Had  she  not  taken 
her  own  course  when  the  young  preacher 
wooed  her  in  his  manly  way,  showing  towards 
her  the  tenderness  of  his  steadfast  spirit,  so 
31 


32 


A  MODERN  QUIXOTE 


stern  in  self-denial,  so  impervious  to  all  other 
weakness?  What  did  it  matter  that  he  had 
renounced  fortune  and  lucrative  occupations 
for  his  high  calling?  She  revered  his  sublime 
unworldliness  but  never  dreamed  of  reaching 
the  level  of  it  herself;  she  could  not  have 
said  truthfully  that  she  desired  it.  And  this 
woman  looked  proudly  on  her  manly  son,  so 
like  herself,  and  yet  was  blind  enough  to 
think  that  she  could  mold  his  will  to  hers,  and 
tell  him  where  to  love. 

She  was  proud  of  his  popularity,  proud  of 
his  scholastic  honors,  and  the  old  name  he 
bore,  and  what  more  natural  than  that  he 
should  make  a  brilliant  marriage?  But  with 
all  this  deep  love  between  mother  and  son, 
there  was  a  shade  of  habitual  reserve,  im¬ 
parted,  perhaps,  from  her  own  nature  to  his, 
which  barred  out  many  little  confidences  that 
might  have  aroused  her  from  this  dream  of 
security. 

In  the  meantime  he  ran  his  college  course, 
much  as  any  of  his  young  acquaintance. 

She  laughingly  told  a  friend  one  day,  that 
she  was  glad  to  say  her  boy  “had  not  thought 


A  MODERN  QUIXOTE 


33 


aoout  the  girls  yet.”  She  was  sure  that  when 
he  entered  society  in  earnest  he  would  select 
some  aristocratic  girl  for  his  wife,  who  would 
reflect  credit  on  his  taste  and  family.  And  so 
the  fond  mother  built  her  palace  of  cards,  sit¬ 
ting  in  her  darkened,  flower-scented  chamber 
this  spring  day,  while  Walter  and  Laurie  told 
their  story  to  each  other  by  the  vine-shaded 
river-path. 

Mrs.  Marlowe  had  never  quite  forgiven  Ruth 
Hargrave  for  marrying  so  far  out  of  her  sta¬ 
tion,  but  they  had  been  good  friends  in  their 
young  days,  and  the  survivor  felt  always  a 
kindly  interest  in  Ruth’s  little  daughter;  but 
the  major,  with  his  loud  voice  and  terrible 
grammar,  was  a  trying  ordeal  for  the  fastid¬ 
ious  woman  to  endure  for  an  hour.  Laurie, 
morbidly  sensitive  where  this  dear  old  father 
of  hers  was  concerned,  divined  this  feeling 
and  gradually  ceased  making  her  visits  there. 

Walter  thought  he  knew  the  tender  secret 
of  her  absence.  The  old  doctor  often  looked 
over  his  spectacles  and  asked  why  she  never 
came,  but  the  mother  said  nothing.  She  was 
far  indeed  from  suspecting  a  present  danger, 


34 


A  MODERN  QUIXOTE 


but  it  was  part  of  her  plan  that  the  intimacy 
between  her  son  and  the  major’s  daughter 
should  not  survive  his  boyhood;  and  she  felt 
that  fate  was  playing  into  her  hand.  She 
thanked  her  good  star,  and  kept  silent,  for 
she  dreaded,  as  she  dreaded  nothing  else,  the 
stern  reproach  that  would  gather  in  her  hus¬ 
band’s  eyes  when  the  expression  of  such  a 
feeling  would  sometimes  escape  her. 

Walter  came  to  her  this  day,  a  happy  smile 
illumining  the  beauty  of  his  face,  and  there 
was  great  tenderness  in  the  way  this  tall  boy 
bent  down  and  kissed  her  on  the  forehead. 
He  sat  down  beside  her,  took  both  her  hands 
in  his  and  told  her  his  heart’s  story;  told  her, 
in  his  own  eloquent  way,  how  he  loved  the 
beautiful  girl  with  all  the  strength  of  his  nat¬ 
ure,  and  that  he  could  never  be  happy  with¬ 
out  her.  “I  meant  to  tell  you  this,  mother, ” 
he  went  on,  “before  I  spoke  to  her;  but  I  saw 
in  her  pretty  eyes  this  morning  how  glad  she 
was  of  my  success;  she  looked  so  sweet  in  her 
enthusiasm  about  it,  that  almost  before  I 
knew  it  I  told  her  all.” 

This  was  true,  he  had  meant  to  tell  her, 


A  MODERN  QUIXOTE 


35 


but  put  it  off,  as  one  will  an  unpleasant  task, 
as  long  as  possible.  He  had  expected  oppo¬ 
sition  at  first,  for  he  knew  the  nature  of  his 
mother’s  plan  for  him;  but  he  was  not  pre¬ 
pared  for  the  look  of  anger  that  gathered  in 
her  eyes  as  she  heard  him.  She  withdrew 
her  hands  from  his  clasp,  for  the  first  time  in 
his  life,  and  folded  them  firmly  in  her  lap, 
while  she  listened  in  silence. 

Then  he  saw  how  foolish  had  been  his  hope 
that  she  would  put  by  her  ambitious  dreams, 
when  she  saw  how  deeply  his  happiness  was 
centered  in  Laurie.  He  saw,  before  she  poke, 
that  he  would  never,  by  all  his  pleading  or  all 
her  love  for  him,  be  able  to  win  her  from  her 
enmity  against  his  marriage  with  Marshall 
McNaughton’s  daughter.  He  felt  the  chill 
of  her  disapproval,  and  his  eager  enthusiasm 
vanished;  he  resented  it  for  Laurie’s  sake. 

He  paused  and  looked  at  her  a  moment  full 
in  the  eyes;  each  saw  the  determination  of 
the  other — how  like  they  were  at  that  mo¬ 
ment. 

“Go  on;”  she  spoke  for  the  first  time;  her 
face  was  pale  with  suppressed  anger. 


3^ 


A  MODERN  QUIXOTE 


He  straightened  himself  in  his  chair,  and  in 
an  altered  tone  told  her  curtly  and  in  a  few 
words  that  his  choice  was  unchangeable;  that 
he  had  hoped  she  would  consider  his  happi¬ 
ness  sufficiently  to  lay  aside  any  prejudice  she 
might  have  in  the  matter,  and  receive  the 
motherless  girl  kindly;  but,  that,  anyhow, 
his  troth  was  plighted  to  Laurie  and  his  hap¬ 
piness  as  well  as  his  honor  depended  upon 
his  keeping  it — at  any  cost. 

“You  have  disappointed  me  bitterly, ”  was 
all  she  said  as  she  gathered  her  sewing  to¬ 
gether  and  left  the  room.  Such  an  ending  to 
such  a  day!  He  knew  what  it  meant;  his 
father  would  be  on  his  side,  and  she  would 
submit  to  the  inevitable  and  receive  his  wife, 
— he  knew  that;  but  it  would  be  with  that  im¬ 
mutable  protest  in  her  heart  and  in  her  man¬ 
ner;  and  how  could  he  bring  that  tender¬ 
hearted  child  to  such  a  home? 

He  went  out  of  the  house  with  a  bitter  re¬ 
sentment  in  his  heart  against  his  mother;  she 
who  had  been  so  indulgent  to  his  every  whim, 
and  so  devoted  to  his  interest  always,  now  in 
this  first  great  need  had  failed  him.  The  re- 


A  MODERN  QUIXOTE 


37 


action  from  his  joy  of  the  morning  was  horri¬ 
ble. 

After  an  hour’s  aimless  wandering  in  the 
woods  he  came  to  a  decision.  As  his  anger 
began  to  cool  he  reflected  that  he  had  not 
been  very  considerate,  perhaps;  the  revelation 
had  surprised  her;  he  would  make  one  more 
earnest  effort  to  reconcile  her,  and  induce  her 
to  receive  Laurie  kindly. 

But  it  was  as  he  thought;  his  father  listened 
gravely  to  his  story,  and  said  that  if  he  truly 
loved  the  girl,  and  she  loved  him,  it  was  right 
in  the  sight  of  God,  that  he  should  marry  her; 
but,  though  the  mother  said  nothing  further 
in  protest,  and  even  went  to  see  Laurie  and 
conformed  to  all  the  conventionalities  of  ap¬ 
proval,  Walter  knew  that  in  her  heart  she  was 
embittered  against  his  choice,  and  would  not 
forgive  the  girl  who  had  won  her  son  from  her. 
He  determined  that  Laurie  should  not  know 
of  this,  if  it  was  in  his  power  to  prevent  it; 
and  trusted  to  fate. 

It  was  not  hard  for  him  to  hide  anything 
from  Laurie.  Walter  loved  her;  that  was 
enough  and  she  was  too  happy  to  question 


38 


A  MODERN  QUIXOTE 


anything.  And  as  for  the  major,  that  any 
man  should  win  his  little  girl  was  in  his  eyes 
a  thing  to  be  thankful  for;  it  never  occurred 
to  him  that  there  was  anything  that  one  could 
object  to  in  that. 


CHAPTER  IV 


If  Marshall  McNaughton  had  succeeded  in 
blinding  himself  to  the  progress  he  had  made 
on  the  downward  road  in  C — during  the  past 
few  years,  his  eyes  were  opened  the  morning 
after  Laurie’s  revelation  when  he  rode  into 
town  and  proceeded  to  purchase  the  white 
dress  he  had  promised. 

His  loving  heart  was  vacillating  between 
sympathy  with  her  great  happiness,  and  grief 
at  losing  her.  Memories  of  her  young  mother 
were  mingled  with  his  thoughts  of  Laurie; 
and  as  he  rode  along  the  familiar  road,  with 
slackened  rein,  tears  from  the  purest  spring 
in  the  nature  of  this  anomaly  of  a  man,  rose 
to  his  eyes  and  blotted  the  well-known  land¬ 
scape  from  his  sight. 

Old  “Senora,”  the  mare,  took  her  head  with 
an  easy  pace  and  brought  up  at  “Hartley’s,” 
as  the  place  containing  the  best  bar-room 
was  called.  To  do  the  major  credit,  he  had 
39 


4o 


A  MODERN  QUIXOTE 


not  intended  to  stop  there  this  morning,  but 
his  thoughts  were  far  away  in  other  days,  and 
so  long  as  Senora  had  stopped,  expecting  her 
noonday  siesta  and  her  customary  meal  at  the 
racks  before  the  Hartley  stables,  he  thought 
he  would  just  step  in  and  have  a  word  with 
the  convivial  fellows  sure  to  be  gathered  there. 

He  was  not  disappointed  in  his  expectation 
of  finding  several  boon  companions  of  his  for¬ 
mer  revels  lounging  idly  about  the  place.  Mar¬ 
shall  McNaughton  was  a  man  of  magnificent 
presence,  more  than  six  feet  high,  and  though 
he  bore  the  marks  of  years  of  dissipation  in 
many  ways  upon  him,  still  wore  a  command¬ 
ing  air,  and  created  a  sensation  always  when 
he  entered  a  room.  His  heavy  locks,  consid¬ 
erably  frosted  with  silver,  framed  a  face  still 
handsome  and  engaging. 

He  paused  at  the  doorway,  as  magnificent 
a  figure  of  a  man  as  ever  walked  to  ruin  under 
its  portal.  The  graceful  sweep  of  a  large  felt 
sombrero  shaded  his  face ;  and  he  held  a  heavy 
riding  whip  (merely  from  habit)  in  his  hand; 
had  a  lash  of  one-half  the  weight  been  laid 
upon  Senora  in  his  sight,  it  would  have 


A  MODERN  QUIXOTE 


41 


brought  a  quick  and  terrible  reckoning  with 
her  master.  He  loved  many  men,  hated  a 
few,  but  his  devotion  to  his  daughter  and  his 
horse  was  this  man’s  religion. 

All  rose  and  gave  him  the  seat  of  honor. 
The  clink  of  glasses  went  merrily  round 
again,  and  after  not  aa  few,”  but  many  drinks 
he  told  himself  he  was  better  able  to  execute 
the  delicate  commission  for  which  he  had 
come  to  town. 

He  did  not  remember  that  it  had  been  quite 
a  while  since  he  had  attempted  to  make  a 
purchase  in  C —  outside  of  “Hartley’s,”  and 
the  unstinted  liberality  of  the  proprietor  there 
could  have  been  read  between  the  lines  of 
numerous  notes  of  hand  which  were  piled  up 
in  the  money  drawer  with  the  major’s  signa¬ 
ture  upon  them.  Some  said  that  it  was  a 
thing  that  might  happen  whenever  it  so 
pleased  this  complacent  creditor,  for  his  old 
house  and  all  its  belongings  to  be  put  up  and 
sold  at  auction  any  day  before  his  eyes. 

The  story  had  already  become  known  to 
the  small  commercial  world  of  C — ,  and  when 
he  entered  the  principal  store  of  the  town, 


42 


A  MODERN  QUIXOTE 


and  in  an  off-hand  way  ordered  the  hand¬ 
somest  and  most  expensive  articles  that  could 
be  bought — little  Laurie  should  have  the  best; 
why  not? — he  was  ignominiously  refused  them, 
unless  he  could  pay  for  them  on  the  spot. 

To  be  refused  credit  in  the  South,  in  a  town 
where  you  have  lived,  is  an  insult,  deep  and 
degrading.  It  came  upon  this  man  like  light¬ 
ning  from  the  blue  sky;  it  showed  him  with 
terrible  vividness  many  things  that  he  had 
been  vaguely  conscious  of  but  had  never 
forced  himself  to  look  upon  before.  He  stag¬ 
gered  beneath  the  blow.  He  repeated  the 
effort  in  several  other  stores  in  the  town,  with 
like  results;  and,  as  the  summer  evening  was 
closing  in,  he  mounted  Senora  and  turned 
towards  home,  cut  to  the  heart,  both  by  the 
indignity  he  had  suffered  and  his  failure  to 
keep  his  promise  to  Laurie. 

It  was  not  yet  quite  sunset,  and  he  could 
reach  home  before  dark.  He  thought  of  how 
she  would  be  watching  for  him,  and  speed 
down  the  aveune  to  meet  him,  when  she 
fancied  she  heard  the  old  mare’s  hoofs  ap¬ 
proaching;  she  would  always  put  her  little 


A  MODERN  QUIXOTE 


43 


foot  on  top  of  his  in  the  stirrup  and  bring  her 
lithe  young  body  up  to  his  level  with  a  single 
spring;  then,  with  her  arms  about  him,  give 
him  a  welcoming  kiss. 

He  had  always  felt  here  was  one  being  in 
the  world  in  whose  sight  he  held  the  place 
of  honor.  But  his  eyes  were  opened  now  and 
his  thoughts  were  bitter  against  himself  as 
he  rode  homeward  in  the  light  of  the  closing 
day.  He  had  meant  to  do  so  well  by  little 
Laurie,  and  what  had  he  done?  The  veil  had 
been  ruthlessly  torn  from  his  conduct,  and  he 
had  to  face  some  hard  questions  which  his 
conscience  was  putting  to  him  as  he  returned 
from  his  fruitless  errand,  a  ruined  man — he 
saw  it  at  last,  broken  in  spirit  and  crushed  in 
self-respect. 

“Yes,”  he  accused  himself — “I  have  spent 
her  fortune,  and  humiliated  her  all  these  years 
in  the  eyes  of  C — .  In  the  first  important 
crisis  of  her  life,  I  have  not  been  able  to  make 
the  most  necessary  provision  for  her;”  and,  for 
the  first  time,  he  felt  to-day  that  her  loving 
greeting  would  pain  him ;  he  could  not  bear 
to  meet  her  with  this  feeling  so  strong  upon 


44 


A  MODERN  QUIXOTE 


him;  he  halted  abruptly  in  the  road,  and 
turned  the  mare’s  head  in  another  direction; 
he  made  an  errand  of  some  kind  in  the  neigh¬ 
borhood  that  would  keep  him  until  he  sup¬ 
posed  she  would  be  safely  in  bed. 

But  that  was  unnecessary;  for  the  first  time 
his  little  girl  had  not  been  watching  for  him ; 
she  had  at  last  found  thoughts  which  he  did 
not  share. 

He  would  not  see  her  to-night ;  he  would 
put  it  off  till  to-morrow,  at  least;  it  would 
be  easier  then.  He  lingered  until  the  even¬ 
ing  was  far  spent,  and  the  household  asleep, 
and  then  entered  his  house  crushed  and  dis- 
spirited. 

The  question  of  the  dress  was  not  broached 
the  next  morning;  Laurie  had  thought  he 
would  bring  it,  and  felt  just  a  little  shade  of 
disappointment,  but  she  was  too  happy  to 
worry  about  it  this  morning;  Walter  was  com¬ 
ing  to  take  her  for  a  horseback  ride,  and  her 
eyes  sparkled  with  anticipation,  when  she  ran 
into  the  breakfast  room  and  gave  him  his 
morning  kiss. 

She  seated  herself  opposite  him  with  a  little 


A  MODERN  QUIXOTE 


45 


air,  very  new  and  very  womanly,  and  poured 
out  his  coffee;  but  she  soon  began  to  chatter 
away  in  her  old  childish  manner,  and  it  was 
some  time  before  she  noticed  that  he  was 
making  but  a  very  poor  pretense  of  eating; 
she  noticed  that  his  face  was  pale  and  haggard 
and  had  a  depressed  look  altogether  new  to 
her. 

She  dropped  her  knife  and  fork  in  an  instant 
and  was  at  his  side.  “Oh!  papa,  dear,  what 
makes  you  look  so  white  and  miserable?”  the 
quick  tears  coming  into  her  big  dark  eyes;  “I 
have  been  happy  all  this  time  while  you  have 
been  in  trouble — I  am  a  cruel,  selfish  thing! 
Dear  me” — this  sot  to  voce — “I  reckon  I  have 
been  too  happy;  I  was  afraid  I  was;”  then, 
after  a  moment,  “but  I  won’t  do  it  any  more 
— no,  indeed.”  He  could  not  bear  this;  he 
rose  abruptly  and  walked  to  the  window;  she 
stood  irresolute  for  a  moment  not  knowing 
whether  to  cry  or  not— then  followed  him. 
He  had  his  face  turned  from  her;  he  could 
not  bear,  with  this  new  sense  of  humiliation 
upon  him,  to  look  at  her.  Her  loving  trust  in 
him  was  now  a  reproach  that  touched  him 
to  the  quick. 


46 


A  MODERN  QUIXOTE 


She  pressed  her  cheek  against  his  sleeve 
and  waited;  still  he  could  not  look  at  her, 
and  tell  her  how  low  he  had  fallen  in  the  eyes 
of  his  fellow  men.  He  hoped  she  would  not 
ask  him  about  the  wedding-gown  until  he 
could  think  of  some  expedient  by  which  he 
could  raise  sufficient  money  to  buy  it.  He 
tried  hard  to  think  of  something  to  say  to 
her,  and  could  not. 

“Dear  daddy,  are  you  angry  with  me?" 
came  in  little  sobbing  tones  at  last.  This  was 
too  much — in  a  moment  he  had  told  her  all; 
how  he  had  tried,  and  failed,  to  keep  his 
promise  to  her;  cursing  his  own  folly  in  that 
he  had  failed  to  do  a  father’s  part  by  her. 

Then  the  smile  shone  through  the  tears, — 
was  that  all  ?  She  put  her  hands  lovingly  upon 
his  lips,  and  would  not  let  him  upbraid  him¬ 
self.  She  charmed  away  the  evil  spirit  in 
him,  and  even  now,  true  to  his  mercurial 
nature,  the  crisis  being  past,  his  spirits  began 
to  rebound;  and  he  ended  this  extraordinary 
interview  by  saying: 

“But  don’t  you  spoil  your  pretty  eyes  acryin’ 
’bout  it,  pet;  we’ll  have  a  bonny  weddin’  yet.” 


A  MODERN  QUIXOTE 


47 


To  make  her  smile,  that  was  his  aim  always, 
and  he  managed  to  assume  something  of  his 
old  manner.  “Who’s  that  yonder?”  he  said, 
taking  her  face  beween  his  hands  and  turning 
it  toward  the  avenue — “canterin’  up  the  road 
leadin’  t’other  black  horse?  Wonder  who  he’s 
after?”  His  simulated  cheerfulness  imposed 
upon  her,  and  she  went  off  comforted,  but 
he  found  the  problem  of  ways  and  means 
harder  than  any  he  had  ever  undertaken  be¬ 
fore.  He  paced  the  walk  until  the  morning 
sun  was  near  its  noon,  and  still  he  saw  no 
way  out  of  his  dilemma. 

Happily,  however,  another  council  was  in 
secret  session  on  the  same  subject,  and  it  was 
more  successful  in  coming  to  a  verdict. 

Aunt  Viney  was  scraping  potatoes  at  a  high 
shelf  just  outside  the  kitchen  door,  and  Uncle 
Ben,  in  his  position  of  maid  of  all  work,  to 
which  he  had  descended  by  slow  degrees,  was 
scouring  knives  on  a  flat  rock  which  served 
for  a  doorstep. 

“  ’Pears  to  me,  Sis’  Viney,  de  major’s  got 
sumpin  in  his  mind  lately,”  he  remarked.  “I 
ain’t  h’yearn  him  swar  more’n  wunst  or  twicet 


4» 


A  MODERN  QUIXOTE 


since  he  came  from  town  yistiddy;  an’  I  ’low 
to  myself  he’s  takin’  on  kase  Honey  be 
gwine  away  befo’  long.” 

“Humph!  chile;  he  got  heap  o’  ’tings  ’sides 
dat  on  his  min’.  I  tell  yer,  he  feel  powerful 
bad  kase  he  ain’t  got  no  land  nor  niggers  nor 
nuffin  to  give  her,  de  day  what  she  gits  mar’d, 
like  all  white  folks  does — all  de  folks  what’s 
quality.  Honey,  she  don’  kere  nuffin  ’bout  it, 
kase  she  ain’t  nebber  been  nowhar  ’mong 
udder  gals;  ’n  Mas’r  Walter,  it  don’  make  no 
diffunce  to  him;  he  say,  ‘Nebber  min’,  sweet¬ 
heart,  all  mine’s  gwine  ter  be  yo’s  purty 
soon;’  an’  he  don’  let  on  how  bad  his  ma  feel 
’bout  it.  I  tell  yer  Mis’  Marlowe’s  powerful 
proud — ’deed  she  is!” 

Uncle  Ben  finished  his  knives  and,  setting 
himself  down  in  the  kitchen  door  in  the  sun, 
fell  into  a  deep  study.  After  sitting  silently 
for  some  time,  he  cleared  his  throat  several 
times  and  finally  said: 

“Sis’  Viney!” 

“Humph?”  To  understand  this  responsive 
interrogation,  one  must  have  heard  it. 

“’Pears  to  me  Mars’  Marsh  he  need  some 
money  powerful  bad.” 


A  MODERN  QUIXOTE 


49 


“I  spec’  he  do,  Unc’  Ben;  but  I  don’  know 
whar  he’s  gwine  to  git  none  at.”  Silence 
again  for  a  few  minutes,  then  in  the  same 
tone — 

“Sis’  Viney.” 

*‘I  hear  yer,  Unc’  Ben;”  she  knew  what  he 
was  going  to  say;  it  had  been  in  her  thoughts 
all  day,  too. 

“Don’  it  ’pear  to  you  like  ’taint  correspond¬ 
in’  like  to  hab  niggers,  when  he  so  poor,  till 
he  caint  buy  no  weddin’  clo’es  fur  Honey?” 

“It  cert’ny  do  ’pear  kin’  o  onsuitable, Unc’ 
Ben.” 

“Jes’  me  an’  you;  dat’s  all  dat’s  lef ’ ,  ole 
’oman.” 

“I  know  it,  Unc’  Ben.” 

“Well,  which  one  it  gwine  ter  be,  Sis’Viney 
— you  or  me?” 

“It’s  in  de  Lawd’s  han’  I  reckon, Unc’  Ben,” 
was  her  only  reply  to  this.  She  was  so  busy 
about  the  fire  that  he  could  not  get  a  glimpse 
of  her  face. 

“Well,  I  bin  stud’n  ’bout  it  powerful  heap  to¬ 
day,”  continued  the  old  man,  “an’  I  ’lows  its 
'jes’  like  dis;  we  mus’n’tsay  nuffin’  ’tall  ’bout 

4 


50  A  MODERN  QUlXOTt 

it  to  Honey;  fur  ef  she  knows  what  wuz  gwine 
on,  she  take  on  so,  till  she  jus’  break  her 
heart,  and  ourn  too;  but  we’s  jis’  got  to  ’cide 
’tween  ourse’ves  which  one  us  got  to  go,  and 
den  we’ll  lay  de  case  befo’  de  major.  He’ll 
cuss  de  nigger  blue  what  ’poses  it,  fur  he  ain’t 
gwine  ter  like  de  idee;  but  I  tink,  fur  Honey’s 
sake,  he  do  mos’  anyting;  an’  ef  we’s  got  to 
be  sol’,  mought  jes’  as  well  be  now,  when  de 
money  do  Honey  some  good,  as  fur  to  wait 
fur  de  sheriff,  and  you  knows  dat  gwine  ter 
happen  fo’  long.” 

This  was  hard  sense,  Aunt  Viney  had  to 
admit,  but  how  was  she  going  to  talk  about 
any  scheme  that  might  separate  her  from  her 
baby?  The  wisdom  of  the  plan  had  been 
patent  to  her  mind  a  long  time,  but  as  to 
which  of  them  it  should  be,  that  could  be 
seen  at  a  glance,  she  thought;  how  could  any¬ 
thing  go  on  about  the  place,  and  most  of  all, 
what  would  Laurie  do  without  her?  She  put 
the  case  thus  before  her  “feller  sarvint,”  but 
it  seemed  he  had  entrenched  himself  behind 
an  argument  equally  as  powerful. 

“Well,  it  ’pears  kin’  o’  dis  way  ter  me,”  he 


A  MODERN  QUIXOTE 


51 


said;  “when  Honey  go  to  lib  wid  de  Marlowes 
she  hab  a  whole  passel  o’  niggers  to  wait  on 
her;  but  ef  ole  Ben  go  ’way  who  gwine  ter 
stay  wid  mas’r?  an’  what’s  gwine  to  cum  o’ 
Snorer?  Any  fool  nigger — cep’n  me — what 
cum  nigh  her  she  kick  ’emhigher’n  a  kite  sho 
nuff;  an’  who  gwine  ter  go  long  and  bring 
mas’r  home  safe  o’  nights  when  he  stay  in 
town  late?” 

So  they  talked  and  talked,  the  matter  get¬ 
ting  farther  and  farther  from  a  settlement,  un¬ 
til  at  last  it  was  decided  to  appeal  to  chance, 
the  god  which  in  his  heart  every  darkey  holds 
in  superstitious  awe  but  thinks  may  sometimes 
be  propitiated;  and  accordingly  an  old  bat¬ 
tered  “seb’n-pence”  was  fished  up  from  Uncle 
Ben’s  trousers’  pocket  where  he  had  long 
carried  it  for  luck,  and  they  prepared  to  toss 
for  it. 

Aunt  Viney  demurred  again;  the  coin  that 
was  supposed  to  have  brought  luck  to  its  owner 
so  long  would  certainly  do  so  again  and  she 
demanded  fair  play.  This  was  settled,  how¬ 
ever,  by  his  allowing  her  to  choose  sides,  a 
privilege  also  supposed  to  bring  fortune;  and 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OT  ILLINOIS 


52 


A  MODERN  QUIXOTE 


unconscious  of  the  sublimity  of  their  act  they 
prepared  to  invoke  the  irrevocable  fiat,  for 
neither  would  have  dreamed  of  appealing 
from  the  verdict. 

Uncle  Ben  solemnly  turned  the  worn  bit 
of  silver  over  and  over  in  his  hand  and  scru¬ 
tinized  it  on  both  sides;  it  was  invested  with 
a  new  interest — it  was  to  decide  his  fate. 

With  bated  breath  they  stepped  out  on  the 
little  plateau  under  the  mulberries  where  the 
grass  had  been  worn  away  by  the  faithful  feet 
of  these  two  old  servants,  and  Uncle  Ben  began 
to  choose  his  ground ;  Aunt  Viney  looking  on  in 
awed  silence.  The  stake  for  which  they 
played  was  a  few  more  years  of  toil  and  pri¬ 
vation  on  the  dear  old  place,  where  every 
homely  object  was  a  shrine  at  which  their 
fond  hearts  worshiped;  and  the  privilege  of 
spending  their  allotted  years  in  the  service  of 
those  for  whose  sake  they  would  even  go,  if  it 
should  be  their  lot,  uncomplaining.  Aunt 
Viney  had  chosen  “heads.”  By  tacit  consent 
both  stood  silent  and  gazed  at  the  familiar 
scene  where  their  lives  had  been  spent, taking 
in  every  detail  with  its  associations  of  more 
than  half  a  century. 


A  MODERN  QUIXOTE 


53 


Down  there  on  the  old  swamp  road  Uncle 
Ben  had  taught  “Honey”  and  Honey’s  mother 
to  ride  on  horseback.  Over  here  went  the 
path  by  which  he  had  led  the  old  Senora  to 
water  night  and  morning  for  so  many  years. 
Over  there  to  the  west  lay  the  fields  where 
he  had  labored  in  the  cotton  rows  side  by  side 
with  Tuny  of  the  lustrous  eyes.  Ah!  those  old 
days  when  cotton  was  king!  Then  the  nights 
when  the  moon  was  full,  and  the  dance  before 
the  cabin  doors — for  Tuny  with  the  yellow 
skin  and  speaking  eyes  was  belle  of  the  quar¬ 
ters, —  poor  old  Tuny,  dead  and  buried  long 
ago. 

Aunt  Viney  looked  longest  towards  the  spot 
where  a  willow  stood  sentinel  over  some 
quiet  graves.  There  lay  the  young  “Miss,” 
the  idol  of  her  life,  where  they  had  laid  her 
down  before  the  dark  days  came.  Like  a 
white  thread  over  the  green  hill  ran  the  track 
her  feet  had  made  as  she  led  her  darling’s  little 
daughter,  night  and  morning,  to  her  mother’s 
grave.  Then  she  could  see  the  little  path 
branch  off  towards  another  enclosure,  almost 
invisible  now  to  the  dim  old  eyes,  where  the 


54 


A  MODERN  QUIXOTE 


faithful  servants  of  the  family  rested  from 
their  toils  and  some  of  her  own  little  picka¬ 
ninnies  slept  their  long  sleep.  It  was  their 
world,  their  all,  how  could  they  leave  it? 

The  sun  sank  below  the  hills.  The  curtain 
was  down  upon  the  closing  act,  and  the  last 
of  the  actors  must  disperse.  With  a  sigh  that 
was  almost  a  moan  they  came  back  to  the 
present.  The  old  man  proceeded  to  toss. 

“Now  she’s  gwine!”  he  said  in  an  excited 
whisper,  and  up  went  the  coin,  flashing  an 
instant;  down  it  came  again  through  the 
leaves  overhead,  and  lay  upon  the  ground  a 
few  feet  from  them.  They  looked  into  each 
others’  faces  a  moment  while  their  hearts 
stood  still  with  fear,  then  knelt  down  to  read 
their  fate. 

The  worn  outline  of  head  lay  uppermost. 

Without  a  word,  the  old  fellow  picked  up 
the  coin  and  put  it  in  his  pocket  and  taking 
his  old  straw  hat  from  the  ground,  turned 
and  walked  away  towards  the  stables. 

“  ’Fore  Gawd!”  was  Aunt  Viney’s  only  re¬ 
mark,  as  she  remained  stupefied,  on  her 
knees,  and  looked  after  his  retreating  figure. 


THE  OLD  MAN  PROCEEDED  TO  TOSS. 


A  MODERN  QUIXOTE 


55 


The  bitter  tears  shed  by  that  fond  old  heart 
as  he  hid  his  face  in  the  mare's  silky  mane 
and  clasped  his  arms  around  her  neck,  none 
but  “Snorer”  knew,  and  she  could  never  tell. 


CHAPTER  V 


The  major  received  the  old  darkey’s  propo¬ 
sition  much  as  Uncle  Ben  had  expected;  nor 

was  the  ultimate  result  other  than  that  he  had 

« 

foreseen.  Here  was  another  blow  to  that 
pride  to  which  until  two  days  ago  the  master 
had  held  so  firmly.  This  man  had  known  for 
a  long  time  that  he  was  giving  ground,  though 
he  had  parried  the  strokes  of  his  enemy,  cir¬ 
cumstances,  desperately,  and  refused  to  ad¬ 
mit  to  himself  that  he  was  being  beaten; 
but  now,  by  a  little  turn  of  the  blade,  he  was 
disarmed,  and  after  his  experience  in  town 
that  day  he  had  no  heart  to  resist  longer. 

He  listened  to  the  old  negro’s  words;  and 
low  as  it  made  him  seem  in  his  own  sight, 
this  proposition,  which  a  week  ago  he  would 
have  scorned,  showed  him  an  outlet  from  the 
wall  of  difficulties  that  seemed  closing  around 
him;  and  swearing  at  first  that  he  would  never 

listen,  he  surrendered  to  it  at  last. 

56 


A  MODERN  QUIXOTE 


57 


This  thought  of  selling  the  old  negro,  who 
was  part  of  the  inheritance  left  to  Laurie  by 
her  mother,  lowered  him  more  in  his  own 
eyes  than  any  act  of  his  erratic  life  which 
had  made  it  necessary;  and  yet  the  motive 
which  actuated  him  in  it  arose  from  the 
purest  instinct  of  his  nature — his  passionate 
love  for  his  little  daughter.  What  imperfect, 
what  unjust  judges  of  ourselves  we  are,  after 
all! 

It  was  a  hard  task  to  bring  himself  to  con¬ 
sent  to  this,  the  only  available  means  that 
he  could  see  for  raising  even  the  small 
sum  of  money  necessary  to  provide  for  his 
Laurie’s  wedding,  but  when  it  was  decided, 
it  gave  him  some  little  feeling  of  pleasure  to 
think  she  would  not  be  humiliated,  anyway. 
She  should  have  the  prettiest  white  dress  in 
the  town,  and  what  was  one  more  pang  of 
self-reproach,  one  more  bitter  memory  added 
to  his  long  account,  compared  to  the  mortifi¬ 
cation  and  disappointment  he  had  felt  was  in 
store  for  her?  After  all  he  thanked  God  it  was 
old  Ben’s  thought  not  his;  and  he  took  a 
drink  of  brandy  twice  the  usual  size. 


58 


A  MODERN  QUIXOTE 


To  keep  up  appearances  for  the  little  one’s 
sake  until  she  was  honorably  married,  that 
was  all  he  asked;  beyond  that,  with  a  sort  of 
fatal  premonition,  he  would  not  look. 

He  made  himself  no  idle  promise  of  refor¬ 
mation  in  his  ways;  he  knew  he  would  not 
change  for  the  better  now.  There  was  a  reck¬ 
lessness  added  to  his  former  hilarity,  which 
no  one,  perhaps,  but  the  two  old  darkies,  no¬ 
ticed;  who  were  thankful  when  they  saw  it 
that  their  darling  was  provided  for. 

Thus  the  drama  swept  on  to  its  denouement 
with  its  deep  under-currents  of  love,  duty, 
sacrifice,  bearing  on  to  its  destination  the 
little  rose-colored  sail  that  carried  Laurie 
“and  her  fortune. ”  The  girl,  in  the  mean¬ 
time,  pure,  and  loving  even  to  the  old  trees 
under  which  she  had  played,  lived  uncon¬ 
scious  of  the  dark  shape  that  waited  on  her 
footsteps.  Walter  loved  her — that  was  enoi^gh. 

She  had  quite  made  up  her  mind  that  she 
did  not  want  the  new  dress;  she  had  been 
selfish,  she  told  herself,  to  distress  poor 
“daddy”  about  it.  There  was  still  a  remnant 
of  old  finery  in  a  chest  in  the  attic  which 


A  MODERN  QUIXOTE 


59 


would  do  very  well;  Aunt  Viney  and  she 
would  rip  off  the  lace,  and  with  its  help  re¬ 
adorn  the  remains  of  some  fabric  which  had 
seen  previous  service.  What  did  it  matter? 
Had  not  Walter  said  it  made  no  difference? 
It  had  been  no  new  thing  for  her  father  to 
promise  her  the  most  preposterous  things  in 
all  good  faith  and  forget  the  circumstance 
entirely;  she  hoped  it  would  be  so  now,  and 
seeing  his  embarrassments,  resolved  to  say 
nothing  more  about  the  matter. 

On  the  other  hand,  he  avoided  the  topic 
religiously  and  trembled  for  fear  she  should 
suspect  the  plot  between  old  Ben  and  himself, 
and  in  her  loving,  impulsive  way  put  an  end 
to  it. 

She  had  risen  early  one  morning  and,  en¬ 
sconced  in  her  favorite  position,  was  working 
industriously  on  a  sketch  which  had  occupied 
much  of  her  time  of  late  when  Walter  was 
not  by;  it  was  a  sketch  of  this  spot  so  dear 
to  the  lovers’  hearts,  and  she  intended  it  as  a 
parting  gift  to  her  father.  Through  unfore¬ 
seen  events  the  work  was  never  completed  and 
the  world  has  missed  the  opportunity  of  pass- 


6o 


A  MODERN  QUIXOTE 


ing  on  its  merits.  It  was  supposed  by  many 
to  be  a  representation  of  an  Arctic  explorer’s 
fleet  under  full  sail 

But  what  did  it  matter?  Nature  was  in  its 
springtide  on  the  earth,  and  in  her  heart, 
what  did  she  want  from  art?  Leave  that  great 
consoler  for  the  dear  faded  old  mam’selle  for 
whom  youth,  beauty  and  love,  are  over. 
How  could  she  work  on  such  a  morning  with 
all  the  glad  sights  and  sounds  of  summer 
claiming  her  eyes  and  ears?  It  was  indeed  a 
rarely  beautiful  spot,  this  trysting  place;  the 
water  there  was  clearer  and  the  shade  more 
dense  and  cool  than  in  any  other  place  in  all 
the  world,  they  thought;  and  to  one  of  them 
afterwards,  in  great  misery,  the  scene  came 
out  on  the  dark  ground  of  the  present  with 
heart-breaking  vividness. 

Gradually  the  charm  of  the  scene  began  to 
work  upon  her,  the  book  slid  from  her  lap 
and  the  old  reverie  took  empire  in  her  thought 
again. 

There  was  just  one  little  canker  spot  in  the 
flower  of  her  great  joy;  she  suspected  that 
Walter  had  some  trouble  upon  his  mind,  but 


A  MODERN  QUIXOTE  6l 

she  had  not  been  able  to  fathom  it;  he  had 
come  to  her  looking  pale  and  anxious  some¬ 
times  of  late,  but  always  laughed  her  questions 
away.  He  could  not  bear  that  she  should 
know  the  state  of  his  mother’s  feeling  towards 
her.  He  had  wounded  her  in  her  most  sensi¬ 
tive  spot,  her  ambition  for  him.  It  was  a 
source  of  great  pain  to  Marlowe,  for  he  loved 
this  handsome,  stately  mother  with  a  deep 
devotion. 

Poor  little  Laurie  had  never  felt  comfortable 
in  his  mother’s  presence  and  instinctively 
shrank  from  the  ceremonious  visits  of  the  elder 
woman ;  it  was  not  hard  therefore  to  deceive 
her  in  the  matter  and  when  Walter  told  her 
that  he  wished  the  engagement  kept  secret 
for  awhile,  and  the  wedding  to  be  a  private 
one,  she  thought  it  was  out  of  consideration 
for  her  own  circumstances,  and  gratefully  ac¬ 
quiesced.  He  felt  now  that  he  had  been  pre¬ 
cipitate  in  asking  her  to  marry  him  on  his 
graduation  day;  he  should  have  won  his 
mother  first. 

He  loved  Laurie  too  dearly,  however,  to 
risk  wounding  her  by  a  suggestion  of  delay. 


62 


A  MODERN  QUIXOTE 


In  the  meantime,  he  guarded  the  affair  from 
the  knowledge  of  his  classmates,  who  knew 
that  he  had  always  been  friends  with  the 
major’s  pretty  daughter  but  suspected  noth¬ 
ing  more.  As  for  Laurie — a  Southern  girl 
keeps  her  love  secrets  well.  He  clung  still 
to  a  gossamer  thread  of  hope  that  his  mother 
would  consent  to  receive  his  wife  kindly.  He 
knew  that  she  was  prejudiced ;  that  she  visited 
the  sins  of  the  father  upon  the  child;  and 
there  were  moments  when  he  fought  against 
a  dull  feeling,  almost  of  hatred  of  this  man 
who  had  dragged  his  daughter  from  the  posi¬ 
tion  that  should  have  been  hers,  and  thus 
stood  between  him  and  his  perfect  happiness. 
It  was  this  feeling  that  clouded  his  brow 
sometimes  when  he  saw  how  tenderly  devoted 
she  was  to  the  old  father;  but  he  could  not 
breathe  a  word  of  it  to  her;  she  would  have 
resented  it  deeply,  he  knew. 

And  thus  the  days  passed  on  until  Mar¬ 
lowe’s  graduation  was  but  a  few  weeks  off. 
The  major  had  kissed  his  daughter  more  fondly 
than  ever  that  morning,  and  started  to  town 
as  usual;  but  when  his  foot  was  in  the  stirrup, 


A  MODERN  QUiXOTR  63 

he  stopped,  and  turning  to  her  again  patted 
her  on  the  head,  and  taking  her  under  the 
chin  in  a  playful  way,  raised  her  face  to  his 
and  looked  long  and  lovingly  into  her  eyes. 
Yes,  it  was  a  beautiful  face,  all  dimpled  with 
smiles  now,  for  she  was  happy.  Her  father 
seemed  more  like  his  old  self  this  morning,  his 
depression  seemed  banished  by  magic. 

True,  he  had  not  done  his  duty  by  his  daugh¬ 
ter,  as  the  world  said,  this  self-indulgent,  easy¬ 
going  man;  he  had  squandered  the  fortune 
which  should  have  been  hers,  but  he  was  mak¬ 
ing  for  her  sake  to-day  a  sacrifice  of  his  pride, 
and  he  alone  knew  what  it  cost  him.  To  vol¬ 
untarily  sell  an  old  negro  long  resident  on  the 
place,  was  an  act  which  brought  much  hard 
criticism  generally  on  the  master. 

He  mounted,  and  old  Senora  was  soon  out 
of  sight  for  she  could  travel  well  still.  He 
turned  at  the  last  bend  in  the  road  and  waved 
his  hand  to  her;  she  watched  him  out  of  sight. 
In  the  last  glimpse  she  had  of  him,  he  was 
looking  back  at  her  again.  With  all  his  delin¬ 
quencies  toward  her,  Laurie  knew  that  her 
father  had  loved  her  well.  It  was  this  knowl- 


64  A  MODERN  QUIXOTE 

edge  that  made  her  troubles,  when  they  came, 
so  much  harder  to  bear.  It  was  Saturday, 
and  she  knew  Walter  would  come  soon;  her 
mind  was  full  of  little  rose-colored  plans  for 
the  future. 

Presently  she  saw,  first  the  dog,  then  the 
master,  coming  toward  the  rendezvous.  That 
was  the  way  he  always  came,  sometimes  with 
a  Virgil  sticking  out  of  his  pocket,  sometimes 
with  a  gun  over  his  shoulder,  according  to 
which  proved  at  the  time  the  best  excuse  for 
his  ramble. 

Walter  proposed  a  picnic  and  a  gipsy  fire 
under  the  trees,  and  all  went  merrily  until  he 
innocently  remarked  that  it  was  a  sort  of  ir¬ 
regular  sale  day  in  the  town  and  as  his  father 
had  gone  in  early,  and  his  mother  was  visit¬ 
ing  friends  some  miles  away,  he  was  free  to 
spend  his  day  with  her.  He  was  bent  down 
in  a  comical  effort  to  blow  some  sticks  into  a 
blaze.  Struck  by  her  sudden  silence,  he 
looked  up  at  her,  fanning  the  air  wildly  with 
his  hat  to  get  the  smoke  from  before  his  eyes. 
She  was  standing  pale  and  motionless;  an 
agony  of  fear  had  seized  her  heart. 


A  MODERN  QUIXOTE 


65 


He  sprang  up  in  an  instant  and  put  his  arm 
around  her.  “What  is  it,  darling?”  he  asked 
anxiously.  The  look  on  her  face  alarmed  him; 
she  looked  at  him  with  an  expression  he  had 
never  seen  on  her  face  before.  “Oh,  Walter,” 
she  said  solemnly,  earnestly,  laying  one  hand 
upon  his  arm,  “I  would  not  speak  of  this  to 
any  one  but  you;  you  have  just  reminded  me 
that  this  is  a  sale-day  in  town,  and  I  know 
my  poor  father  will  meet  those  terrible  men 
who  make  him  drink.  It  frightens  me  so,  to 
think  of  his  coming  home  late  at  night  alone 
when  he  has  been  drinking.  I  have  no  one 
to  go  to  but  you — dear  Walter,  won’t  you  go 
and  stand  by  him  and  bring  him  home 
safely  for  my  sake?  Sometimes  I  have  been 
able  to  keep  him  at  home  on  these  terrible 
sale-days,  but  I  was  so  happy  this  time  I 
did  not  remember  and  now  I  have  let  him 
go.” 

Here  the  great  eyes  filled  with  tears,  and 
she  clung  to  him  pitifully.  She  looked  so 
beautiful,  so  pure  and  sweet  in  her  distress 
for  this  erring  father,  that  all  that  was  finest, 
all  that  was  best,  in  this  generous,  but  far 
5 


(j(j 


A  MODERN  QUIXOTE 


from  perfect  young  man  arose  to  meet  her 
trust  and  fulfill  it. 

“I  will  go,  dear,”  he  said  softly,  drawing 
his  arms  closer  about  her;  “but  don’t  cry, 
Laurie;  I  can’t  bear  that,  indeed  I  can’t.” 

“But  oh,  Walter,  won’t  you  go  now,  this 
moment?  He  is  so  good  and  yielding, they  will 
make  him  drink  again,  I  know  it.” 

“I  will  go  at  once,”  he  answered  her  proudly, 
a  bright  light  flashing  from  his  eyes,  “and  I 
will  convince  him  that  I  am  his  friend  for 
your  sake,  and  one  to  whom  he  can  entrust 
you.  Don’t  worry  about  it  any  more,  dear, 
for  I  am  going  to  be  your  protector  now. 
Look  up,  Laurie” — for  she  had  hidden  her 
face  in  shame  and  sorrow  on  his  shoulder — 
“and  smile  at  me,  and  say  you  trust  me.”  She 
did  smile — a  little  tremulous  smile  through 
her  tears — and  he  folded  her  to  his  heart  and 
kissed  her  passionately  again  and  again.  She 
had  never  seemed  so  dear  to  him  as  now, 
when  she  appealed  to  him  for  help. 

“And  now,  darling,  that  is  better,”  he  said 
after  a  little,  for  he  knew  that  to  do  any  good 
he  must  be  gone.  “I’ll  be  the  oak  and  you 


A  MODERN  QUIXOTE 


67 


be  the  ivy,  eh?  Never  fear;  I  will  be  with 
him,  and  it  will  be  all  right.” 

“Oh,  Walter,  if  you  will  be  his  friend,  I 
will  never  doubt  that  you  love  me.” 

“Then  farewell,  my  lady  fair,  I  go  to  do 
thy  bidding,”  he  said  laughing,  and  dropped 
upon  one  knee  kissing  her  hand  to  carry  out 
his  knight  errant  part.  She  was  looking  quite 
content  again,  and  smiled  upon  him.  Walter 
was  so  strong  and  manly — Walter  loved  her 
so  truly!  what  had  she  to  fear  now? 

“But  don’t  you  go  anywhere,  nor  speak  to 
any  one  else,  nor  do  anything  all  day,  but 
think  about  me,  or  I’ll  consider  myself 
cheated,”  he  called  back  to  her.  “Remember 
I  only  leave  you  to  look  after  your  father — 
our  father, I  mean.”  What  would  he  not  mean 
to  please  her? 

“Leave  Carlo  to  keep  me  company  then,” 
she  said;  “he  often  comes  and  spends  the 
whole  day  with  me  when  you  are  away — don’t 
you,  Carlo?”  The  dog,  who  was  running  from 
one  to  the  other  in  doubt  which  way  his  duty 
lay,  wagged  his  tail  in  complete  acquiescence 
of  anything,  he  did  not  care  what. 


68 


A  MODERN  QUIXOTE 


“All  right,”  said  Walter,  looking  at  Carlo 
and  waving  his  hand  slightly  toward  Laurie; 
meaning  that  she  was  in  his  charge  until  the 
master  should  return;  “you  can  hold  him  as 
a  hostage  for  the  safe  return  of  your  father; 
he  is  the  dearest  thing  I  could  leave  you.”  He 
patted  the  beautiful  creature  on  the  head  and 
went  slowly  from  them.  He  returned  home¬ 
ward  by  the  river-path  and  in  less  than  a  half 
hour  was  on  horseback  and  on  his  way  to 
C— . 

He  longed  to  do  this  little  service  for  the 
girl  he  loved  as  ardently  as  any  belted  knight 
ever  longed  to  display  his  lady’s  colors  on  the 
battle  field. 

She  heard  the  distant  sound  of  his  horse’s 
flying  feet  and  now  he  was  gone;  just  as  the 
other  had  gone  from  her  that  day,  with  a  kiss 
upon  her  forehead  and  fond  words  upon  his 
lips. 


CHAPTER  VI 


The  public  square  in  the  town  of  C —  pre¬ 
sented  a  busy  appearance  on  this  Saturday 
afternoon  in  June,  1856. 

The  auction  crier  was  standing  on  a  plat¬ 
form  and  the  sales  of  the  day  had  just 
drawn  to  a  close,  when  Marlowe  rode  up  on 
horseback  and  halted  on  the  outskirts  of  the 
crowd.  Presuming  that  the  object  of  his 
search  would  be  found  here,  he  dismounted 
and  threw  his  bridle  to  a  little  black  urchin 
who  came  up,  with  a  flash  of  white  teeth  re¬ 
vealed  in  a  broad  grin  at  the  prospect  of  a 
lucrative  job,  and  entered  the  throng. 

He  was  surprised  to  find  the  major  not 
there,  but  an  event  had  just  then  transpired 
which  put  his  errand  out  of  his  mind  for  the 
moment.  The  epidemic  of  merriment  showed 
that  something  unusual  had  occurred.  Mar¬ 
lowe  inquired  of  a  townsman  what  the  matter 

was,  and  as  soon  as  the  fellow  could  command 
69 


70 


A  MODERN  QUIXOTE 


his  voice  he  told  him  that  “that  —  cuss  Hank 
Staples  had  just  bought  a  nigger,”  and  lapsed 
into  his  paroxysms  of  laughter  again.  Just 
then  he  spied  old  Ben  sitting  disconsolately 
on  a  bench  in  the  background  shaking  his 
head  and  talking  to  himself.  It  was  he  who 
had  been  sold  to  Hank  Staples. 

Marlowe  could  not  understand  it;  after  a  few 
words  with  the  auctioneer,  he  crossed  over 
to  the  old  darkey  and  laid  a  hand  kindly  upon 
his  shoulder. 

Uncle  Ben  raised  his  head,  and  a  look  of 
rapture  came  into  his  eyes  when  he  saw  who 
it  was.  Walter  had  come  to  be  associated 
with  his  own  folks  in  the  old  fellow’s  mind. 

“Glory  to  Gawd!  am  dat  you,  Mas’r  Wal¬ 
ter?”  he  cried,  and  poured  out  the  tale  of  his 
woe;  he  belonged  “to  the  trash.”  Walter 
stood  there  and  heard  the  whole  pitiful  story 
rehearsed;  the  desperate  circumstances  of  the 
McNaughtons,  this  last  resource  to  which  they 
had  been  driven  ;  it  revealed  a  depth  of  neces¬ 
sity  of  which  even  he  had  been  entirely  igno¬ 
rant.  He  was  not  surprised  then  that  the 
major  had  absented  himself  from  the  scene. 


A  MODERN  QUIXOTE 


71 


He  wished  that  he  had  been  a  little  earlier, 
he  would  have  bought  the  old  negro  at  almost 
any  price;  how  pleasant  it  would  have  been 
to  tell  Laurie  that  her  old  Ben  would  still  be 
hers;  for  he  knew  how  she  would  take  his 
loss  to  heart.  He  was  meditating  a  plan  by 
which  he  might  still  treat  with  Mr.  Staples 
and  buy  him  back. 

It  would  cost  him  something  though  to  ap¬ 
proach  the  despised  upstart  in  an  amiable 
way.  The  story  had  more  than  once  reached 
his  ears,  that,  presuming  on  his  convivial  re¬ 
lationship  with  the  major,  the  parasite  had 
dared  lift  his  eyes  to  the  major’s  daughter. 
To  a  certain  side  of  Marshall  McNaughton’s 
nature  Hank  Staples  appealed,  but  it  was  the 
worst  side;  and  he  would  sooner  have  seen 
his  little  girl  in  her  grave  than  that  the  fellow 
should  ever  say  a  familiar  word  to  her.  The 
idea  simply  never  occurred  to  him  that  such 
a  thing  could  be  thought  of;  and  Hank,  in 
the  meantime,  had  often  spoken  of  her  as  his 
sweetheart.  Nothing  but  his  respect  for  her 
name  had  kept  Marlowe  s  hand  from  the  fel¬ 
low’s  collar  many  times  when  that  name  had 


72 


A  MODERN  QUIXOTE 


been,  in  the  most  casual  way,  upon  his  lips. 

The  young  man  was  standing  beside  Uncle 
Ben,  meditating  upon  the  affair,  with  any¬ 
thing  but  an  amiable  expression  of  face,  when 
it  was  proposed  that  all  should  adjourn  to  the 
nearest  bar-room,  which  proved  to  be  “Hart¬ 
ley’s.” 

“Hartley’s”  was  a  place  of  that  type  at 
which  the  two  classes,  the  respectable  com¬ 
moner  and  the  upper  ten,  made  their  nearest 
approach  to  affiliation.  The  chasm  that 
divided  them  irrevocably,  was  narrower  here 
than  elsewhere,  and  although  one  seldom 
stepped  from  the  one  side  to  the  other,  they 
would  often  here  shake  hands  across  it. 

It  is  obvious  what  an  attraction  such  a  place 
would  possess  for  the  younger  men  of  the 
town;  and  it  became,  consequently  the  bcte 
noir  of  the  heads  of  the  college  of  S — ,  which 
was  situated  in  the  suburbs  and  under  whose 
walls  assembled  daily  the  scions  of  the  best 
families  in  the  state.  The  most  strenuous 
rules  were  fixed  against  the  students  resorting 
thither  at  all,  but  these  soon  became  Dracon¬ 
ian  laws,  too  hard  to  be  fulfilled.  So,  the 


A  MODERN  QUIXOTE 


73 


president  and  the  faculty,  though  they  still 
considered  “Hartley’s”  a  thorn  in  the  flesh, 
were  forced  to  compromise  the  matter,  and 
the  older  fellows  knew  that  a  Saturday  even¬ 
ing  spent  in  that  convivial  company  would 
not  be  brought  up  against  them,  if  their 
studies  were  not  interfered  with  in  conse¬ 
quence. 

It  was  already  getting  toward  evening  when 
Marlowe  entered;  he  had  expected  to  meet 
his  companions  there  in  the  evening,  and  he 
made  it  a  point  to  avoid  the  appearance  of 
his  real  errand.  A  brilliant  company  had 
already  assembled,  and  there,  surrounded  by 
an  admiring  group,  sat  the  major  talking  his 
noisiest.  The  young  man,  who  watched  him 
to-night  with  a  new  interest,  thought  that  he 
had  purposely  worked  himself  into  this  state 
of  feverish  hilarity  for  a  purpose;  at  any  rate, 
he  had  fully  embarked  on  a  sea  of  glory  in 
which  he  promised  to  be  submerged  before 
long;  that  was  clear. 

Marlowe  greeted  him  casually  and  turned 
to  where  some  friends  were  talking  at  an  open 
window,  and  joined  them;  still  keeping  an 


74 


A  MODERN  QUIXOTE 


unobserved  espionage  upon  him,  however.  To 
urge  him  to  return  home,  would  have  been, 
at  this  juncture,  like  oil  to  the  flames,  he  re¬ 
flected,  and  so  the  only  thing  was,  simply,  to 
keep  him  in  sight;  in  that  way  he  could  at 
least  fulfill  his  promise  to  Laurie,  and  take 
him  home  safe — if  not  sober. 

A  reinforcement  to  the  merry  party  soon 
arrived  in  a  detachment  of  the  college  boys 
off  for  their  Saturday  holiday.  They  were  all 
classmates  of  Marlowe’s,  and  would  graduate 
in  a  few  weeks.  It  was  understood  that,  in 
a  way,  this  would  be  their  last  night’s  fun  to¬ 
gether;  they  would  disperse  after  commence¬ 
ment  to  their  homes  in  various  parts  of  the 
Southern  states. 

They  were  the  members  of  an  organization 
connected  with  their  college,  similar,  I  sup¬ 
pose,  to  those  that  exist  in  all  such  institu¬ 
tions.  The  object  being  simply  to  have  fun, 
as  a  relief  from  the  routine  of  study ;  and  band¬ 
ed  together  in  order  to  accomplish  that  end 
more  effectually. 

It  began  in  the  same  way  as  so  many  of 
those  secret  societies  in  the  South,  which  in 


A  MODERN  QUIXOTE 


75 


war  time,  and  in  the  “reconstruction’’  period, 
assumed  so  much  importance  in  the  eyes  of 
the  new  government — namely,  in  a  project  to 
enjoy  themselves,  and,  by  a  pledge  of  mutual 
support,  to  protect  themselves,  in  some 
measure,  from  the  chastisement  of  the  faculty. 

This  particular  clan  had  been  organized  sev¬ 
eral  years  before  by  a  senior  class,  and  handed 
down  to  each  succeeding  one,  until  it  had 
grown  to  be  a  time-honored  institution  among 
the  students.  It  was  considered  a  mark  of 
distinction  for  a  stranger  to  be  admitted;  for 
the  very  essence  of  the  thing  depended  upon 
a  certain  point  of  honor. 

It  was  stipulated  in  the  initiation  formula 
that  each  member  should  pledge  his  most 
sacred  honor  to  maintain  a  strict  secrecy  con¬ 
cerning  anything  that  might  occur  when  they 
were  on  any  escapade  together.  If  any  mem¬ 
ber  should  be  charged  with  a  misdemeanor, 
he  was  to  keep  silent,  whether  innocent  or 
guilty,  and  the  others  to  do  likewise,  so  as  to 
baffle  detection  of  the  culprit.  Nothing  more 
was  apprehended  than  a  breach  of  college 
rules  and  the  vengeance  of  the  faculty. 


76 


A  MODERN  QUIXOTE 


Hitherto,  the  plan  had  been  eminently 
successful,  and  it  was  the  proud  boast  of  the 
order  that  not  a  man  had  ever  been  induced, 
under  any  hard  circumstances,  to  break  the 
oath;  one  young  fellow  even  suffered  expul¬ 
sion  from  college,  when  suspicion  had  fallen 
upon  him,  rather  than  speak  on  a  particular 
occasion;  and  he  was  promptly  canonized 
in  the  memory  of  the  order. 

For  several  days  after  the  idea  of  this  new 
club  was  conceived,  the  students  had  assumed 
a  very  promising  attitude  of  studiousness  over 
the  open  pages  of  their  Horace  and  their 
Euclid,  while  they  were  racking  their  brains 
to  find  a  name  which  would  be  both  original 
and  applicable.  At  last  one  night  when  lights 
were  out,  and  the  devotees  of  learning  were 
supposed  to  be  resting  after  their  arduous 
tasks,  one  bright  genius  of  the  class  an¬ 
nounced  that  he  “had  it!”  the  clan  should 
be  called  the  “Order  of  the  Mid-knights,” 
a  name  significant  of  the  chivalrous  intentions 
of  the  order,  and,  also,  of  the  hour  at  which 
they  would  generally  hold  their  seances.  This 
inspiration  was  hailed  with  as  much  enthusi- 


A  MODERN  QUIXOTE 


77 


asm  as  was  compatible  with  the  necessity  of 
speaking  under  their  breath,  and  the  title  was 
adopted. 

The  management  of  the  college  had  made 
many  efforts  to  disband  the  “M.  K’s,”  hoping 
as  each  succeeding  class  graduated  and  left 
the  institution,  it  would  be  prevented  from 
entering  again;  but  all  to  no  avail;  the  first 
thing  they  knew,  the  prize  scholars  of  the 
class  would  be  seen  with  the  irrepressible  in¬ 
signia,  the  magical  “M.  K.”,  engraved  on  ring 
and  stud. 

One  president,  a  Dr.  Williams,  had  put  his 
hand  to  the  plow  and  endeavored  to  root  out 
the  evil;  an  evil  the  more  formidable  in  that 
this  oath  of  secrecy  had  grown  through  suc¬ 
cessive  generations  to  be  considered  a  sacred 
trust,  a  sort  of  pledge  of  honor,  that  any  man 
would  have  considered  it  dire  disgrace  to  vio¬ 
late;  he  threatened  to  expel  from  the  college 
every  young  man  refusing  to  abandon  the 
order.  The  result  was  that  almost  the  entire 
class  announced  their  intention  to  leave.  And 
so  the  worthy  president  found  that  his  con¬ 
stituency  would  not  back  him  up.  He  offered 


78 


A  MODERN  QUIXOTE 


his  resignation  in  dignified  umbrage;  the 
trustees  accepted  it  and  the  students  remained. 
So  the  matter  stood  when  the  class  of  Walter 
Marlowe — the  class  of  1856 — entered  on  its 
career,  and  never  had  the  “M.  K’s”  promised 
to  be  more  troublesome.  Young  Harry  Napier 
— the  son  of  that  Judge  Napier  who  now  sat 
upon  the  bench  of  the  supreme  court  of 
Georgia,  was  chosen  chief  for  the  year;  and 
it  was  generally  expected  that  the  escapades 
of  the  class  would  reach  their  maximum  un¬ 
der  his  reign.  He  and  Marlowe  were  the  best 
of  friends,  and  it  was  pleasant  to  see  the 
smile  that  lit  up  this  charming  young  fellow’s 
face  when  he  saw  Walter,  on  entering  Hart¬ 
ley’s  with  a  half  dozen  other  students  and 
“M.  K’s.” 

Walter  was  the  Beauclerc  of  the  class,  and 
they  all  were  proud  of  him;  he  knew  that 
Harry  had  been  far  more  delighted  when  the 
honors  of  the  year  fell  to  his  friend  than  if 
he  had  won  them  himself;  in  fact,  he  would 
have  been  surprised  if  any  one  had  suspected 
him  of  wishing  for  them;  said  he  did  not  go 
in  for  that  sort  of  thing  himself.  This  mad- 


A  MODERN  QUIXOTE  79 

cap  had  always  said  that  Marlowe  was  his 
better  self — no  one  else  had  ever  exercised  so 
much  influence  over  him.  He  was  in  his 
lightest,  merriest  mood  this  evening,  and  ral¬ 
lied  Walter  on  his  sober  looks 

Pretty  soon  he  discovered  the  major;  and 
nothing  ever  pleased  him  quite  so  much  as  to 
listen  to  the  witty  stories  and  Mexican  rem¬ 
iniscences  that  prevailed  when  the  veteran 
was  in  the  humor  for  them.  The  young  fel¬ 
low’s  inimitable  laugh  rang  out  every  now 
and  then,  and  Walter  knew  that  both  the  ora¬ 
tor  and  the  listener  were  taking  more  wine 
than  was, customary  among  the  students. 

Soon,  however,  the  scene  changed;  the 
major  stopped  short  and  muttered  something 
under  his  breath;  it  sounded  like  a  curse,  but 
Walter  could  not  hear  the  words.  Then  in 
walked  Hank  Staples — who  had  never  been 
countenanced  here  but  under  Major  McNaugh- 
ton’s  wing, — with  Uncle  Ben  at  his  heels.  He 
evidently  felt  a  right  to  make  free  among  gen¬ 
tlemen  because  he  had  “bought  a  nigger.” 

The  situation  dawned  upon  the  old  slave’s 
former  master  at  once,  and  he  sat  staring  at 


8o 


A  MODERN  QUIXOTE 


the  new-comers  in  a  stupefied  way,  his  brow 
contracted  into  a  heavy  frown,  and  the  half 
emptied  glass  still  grasped  in  his  hand;  but 
instantly  on  observing  that  he  was  attracting 
attention,  he  turned  the  conversation  again 
into  its  former  channel.  He  would  not  look  in 
the  old  negro’s  direction,  and  he  drank  more 
heavily  and  more  recklessly  after  that.  The 
conversation  soon  became  general,  and  he 
soon  lost  all  sense  of  soreness  in  the  general 
conviviality — apparently. 

Mr.  Hank  Staples  was  a  conspicuous  mem¬ 
ber  of  that  old  branch  of  the  population  in  the 
South  so  well  known  as  the  “po’  white  trash,” 
a  grade  from  which  a  man  rarely,  if  ever, 
emerged;  however,  as  I  say,  he  had  certain 
characteristics  which  gave  him  the  entree  to 
Hartley’s,  where,  for  the  time  being,  he  made 
more  or  less  free  with  his  acquaintances. 
Though  ten  years  younger  he  had  “fit  long 
side  o’  Major  McNaughton  in  the  Mexican 
wah;”  and  somehow  the  major  had  always 
been  his  friend. 

He  was  also  something  of  a  wag  and  told 
a  good  story.  So,  like  the  king’s  jester  of  “ye 


A  MODERN  QUIXOTE 


8l 


olden  time,”  he  was  privileged  to  say,  virt¬ 
ually,  whatever  he  pleased  at  the  expense  of 
any  one  present;  no  self-respecting  man  would 
resent  it,  unless  the  offense  should  be  very 
marked.  He  gained  a  precarious  living,  one 
scarcely  knew  how,  consequently,  the  sur¬ 
prise  of  all  when  he  stepped  up  and  bid  a 
price  for  the  old  negro. 

One  of  the  company  evidently  had  not 
digested  the  phenomenon  yet,  for,  during  a 
little  lull  in  the  cross-fire  which  was  kept  up 
between  Mr.  Staples  and  different  members  of 
the  company,  he  broke  in  with,  “Say,  Hank! 
what  the  devil  did  you  buy  that  old  nigger  for 
anyhow?  He’ll  die  on  your  hands  before 
Christmas.” 

“Well,  that’s  just  what  I  bought  him  for,” 
replied  Hank  with  a  chuckle. 

“What!”  exclaimed  the  chorus,  “what  does 
the  fool  mean  by  that?” 

“Wall,  it’s  jest  this  way,  gentlemen,”  con¬ 
tinued  he,  nothing  abashed,  “you  see  I  haven’t 
ever  owned  a  nigger,  and  a  man  caint  git 
inter  good  ’ciety  till  he  has  niggers  o’  some 
sort.” 

6 


82 


A  MODERN  QUIXOTE 


“That’s  so,  Hank,”  said  some  one  after  the 
general  outburst  had  subsided,  “you  struck 
the  keynote  then,  but  what’ll  you  do  when 
the  old  fellow  dies — and  you  won’t  have  either 
nigger  or  your  money?” 

“Wall,  now,  I  reck’n  that’s  jest  what  I’m 
layin’  fur,  gentlemen.  I’m  goin’  to  engage  a 
place  for  him  in  the  nigger  graveyard  here  in 
town  and  have  him  buried  by  the  Meth’dis 
chache  when  he  dies;  you’ve  alius  been  a 
good  Meth’dis  hain’t  you,  Unc’  Ben?”  he 
called  over  his  shoulder. 

“Yes,  sah !  I  is,  bress  Gawd !”  responded  the 
old  darkey,  from  his  place  in  the  rear  of  the 
party,  the  weary  look  on  his  face  brightening 
a  little  at  the  thought  of  the  posthumous 
honors  that  awaited  him. 

“Well,  then,  yer  see,”  continued  Mr.  Sta¬ 
ples, “when  Unc’  Ben  dies,  I'm  agoin’  to  have 
him  buried  in  town,  and  have  the  chache  bells 
tolled  fur  his  funeral;  and  when  the  people  is 
all  settin’  ’roun’  the  squar’  some  un’ll  say, 
‘Hello!  who’s  that  gittin’  buried?  I  hain’t 
h’yearn  o’  nobody’s  dyin’.’  Then  some  un 
else’ll  say  in  a  kind  o’  off-hand  way:  ‘Oh! 


A  MODERN  QUIXOTE 


«3 


that’s  one  o’  Mr.  Hank  Staples’  niggers/  so, 
you  see,  I’ll  be  a  durned  aristocrat  arter  that.” 
They  all  laughed  heartily  at  this  unique  plan, 
Uncle  Ben  (who,  it  must  be  confessed,  was 
cheering  up  under  the  influence  of  Bourbon 
and  sugar,)  heartiest  of  all.  Harry  Napier 
thought  the  joke  deserved  recognition,  and 
they  all  had  their  glasses  refilled.  After  that 
Mr.  Staples — slave-holder,  and  aristocrat 
elect,  began  a  sparring  match  with  the  major 
on  cld  Mexican  days,  and  they  prevailed  upon 
him  (the  major) — who  had  a  grand  voice — to 
sing  them  a  song.  He  sang  with  fine  effect: 

“  The  guns  had  hushed  their  thunder, 

The  drums  in  silence  lay; 

When  came  the  senorita, 

The  maid  of  Monterey,”  etc. 

During  the  singing,  Uncle  Ben  was  worked 
up  into  an  ecstasy  by  the  melody,  and  after 
swaying  from  side  to  side  for  a  minute  or  two 
began  also,  singing  a  song  in  the  same  key, 
but  with  a  widely  different  import  from  the 
other: 

“  A  charge  to  keep  I  has, 

A  God  to  glorify; 

A  nebber  dyin’  soul  to  sabe, 

And  fit  her  fur  de  sky.” 


84 


A  MODERN  QUIXOTE 


The  occurrence  did  not  harmonize  with  the 
convivial  scene.  A  dead  silence  followed  the 
voice.  Many  felt  the  unconscious  rebuke. 

“Shut  up,  you  old  black  Meth’dis!”  cried 
Hank  Staples,  “or  I’ll  knock  yer  two  eyes 
inter  one.” 

“I  wish  yer  would,”  whined  Uncle  Ben, 
“an’  knock  my  brains  out  too;  fur  I  heap 
ruther  be  dead  than  ter  b’long  to  you.  I’se 
got  a  nebber  dyin’  soul  as  good  as  yourn  an’ 
I’se  hones’  an’  squar’;  an’  I  kin  read  de  Bible, 
and  say  de  Lawd’s  prar,  an’  dat’s  more’nyou 
kin  do,  if  you  is  my  marster.”  Uncle  Ben’s 
heart  prompted  the  thought;  Bourbon  and 
sugar  spoke  the  words.  Hank  Staples  struck 
him  on  the  mouth,  but  if  he  had  intended  to 
repeat  the  blow  he  could  not,  for  he  was 
seized  by  Marlowe,  and  was  on  the  floor  in 
an  instant. 

“You  dare  to  strike  that  old  man,  you  low¬ 
lived  cur!”  he  muttered  between  his  clenched 
teeth,  “and  you  will  have  to  deal  with  me.” 

The  young  man’s  hand  was  at  his  throat, 
and  his  knee  on  the  pigeon-breast  of  the 
“trash.”  It  was  the  last  touch  to  his  long  pent 


A  MODERN  QUIXOTE 


85 


animosity,  and  before  he  knew  it,  his  temper 
took  fire.  He  knew  how  the  old  negro  was 
loved  by  Laurie,  and  that  blow  was  too  much. 

Major  McNaughton  had,  also,  half  arisen 
from  his  chair,  his  brow  dark  and  threatening; 
but  Marlowe  had  no  sooner  given  way  to  his 
anger  than  he  felt  the  imprudence  of  it;  per¬ 
haps  he  felt  a  little  ashamed  to  attack  any¬ 
thing  so  low  and  mean;  and  he  thought  also 
that,  with  all  his  brutality,  the  fellow  had  once 
done  a  great  service  to  Laurie’s  father,  and 
was  befriended  by  him. 

“What  shall  I  do  with  him,  gentlemen?”  he 
said,  “you  all  saw  that  dastardly  act;  he  isn’t 
worth  killing.” 

“Git  up,”  said  the  major  curtly;  and, 
strangely  enough,  Marlowe  arose,  and  spurn¬ 
ing  the  prostrate  figure  slightly  with  his  foot, 
let  him  go. 

“Gentlemen,”  said  the  young  fellow,  turn¬ 
ing  to  the  others,  “you  all  know  that  my  hon¬ 
ored  father  is  a  preacher  of  the  gospel,  and 
has  spent  his  life  in  the  service  of  the  church; 
the  hymn  that  old  man  began  to  sing  was 
always  a  favorite  of  his,  and  no  one  shall  in- 


86 


A  MODERN  QUIXOTE 


suit  that  old  negro  or  pour  contempt  on  that 
hymn,  unless  he  first  puts  me  beyond  the 
power  of  hearing  him.” 

“You  are  right,”  several  voices  said. 

The  major  looked  silently  on  while  the 
young  fellow  was  speaking.  “Walter,”  he 
said,  “come  here;  you  see  that  old  man;  he 
has  not  many  years  to  live,  maybe,  but  take 
him  yourself — your  father  won’t  object  to  any¬ 
thing  you  do,  he  is  a  good  man  and  a  holy 
one — and  let  him  spend  his  last  years  in 
peace.” 

“I  will  do  that  gladly,”  responded  Marlowe, 
“I  was  going  to  propose  it  myself.” 

The  plan  was  applauded  by  all.  “That 
will  suit  all  round,”  said  some  one. 

“Wall,  it  won’t  suit  me,”  said  Hank  Sta¬ 
ples,  “fur  I  hain’t  agoin’  to  sell  him.” 

“Yes,  you  will !”  thundered  the  major.  “Yes, 
you  will,”  echoed  the  crowd.  “And  if  you 
don’t  agree,”  continued  the  major,  incensed 
at  last  against  his  parasite,  “you’ll  never  set 
foot  in  my  house  agin,  an’  I’m  the  only 
friend  you’ve  got  in  the  world,  you  know 
that  d —  well.” 


A  MODERN  QUIXOTE 


87 


“ You’ve  got  your  title  to  aristocracy,  you 
idiot!”  suggested  some  one,  “now’s  your 
chance  to  get  your  money  back  besides.” 

This  argument  seemed  to  find  a  lodgment 
in  his  alleged  mind,  or,  perhaps,  he  was  not 
willing  to  break  with  Laurie’s  father,  and  so, 
after  a  little,  he  gave  a  half  reluctant  acqui¬ 
escence  to  the  plan. 

“How  do  you  like  the  idea,  Uncle  Ben?” 
asked  Harry  Napier,  who  was  chosen,  on  the 
strength  of  being  the  judge’s  son,  to  preside 
over  the  sale. 

“Amen!  Amen!  I  likes  it  powerful;”  re¬ 
ponded  Ben;  “Mas’r  Walter  nex’  ’ting  to  my 
own  folks,  an’  I  likes  to  git  a  chance  to  lib 
wid  de  good  ole  doctor.” 

“Then,”  said  Napier  laughing,  “Uncle  Ben 
must  stand  upon  the  bench  over  there  and 
knock  himself  down  to  the  highest  bidder. 
Nevermind,  Mr.  Staples,”  he  continued,  see¬ 
ing  the  rather  crestfallen  look  of  the  “trash,” 
“we  will  run  up  the  bids  until  Marlowe  pays 
you  a  good  price  for  your  property.”  His  fun- 
loving  spirit  hailed  the  sport  of  the  thing,  but 
he  was  too  kind  at  heart  to  willingly  see  any 


88 


A  MODERN  QUIXOTE 


creature  suffer  for  it.  His  faults — and  they 
were  many — were  the  faults  of  a  rash  temper, 
never  deliberate  cruelty.  Under  all  his  wild 
ways  he  had  a  heart  that  would  not  take 
pleasure  in  the  suffering  of  anything  that 
lived. 

Uncle  Ben  took  his  stand  on  the  bench, 
highly  amused,  but  equal  to  the  occasion. 
“Heah  I  stan’,  gentlemen,”  he  began;  “goin,’ 
goin,  ’  goin,’  to  de  highest  bidder;  how  much 
is  I  offered  fur  dis  good  ’telligent  nigger?  He’s 
hones’  an’  squar’  an’  he’s  got  a  heap  o’sense, 
an’  he’ll  make  a  good  han’  to  ten’  to  de  do’, 
an’  carry  ’roun’  passels,  an’  mebbe,  sometime, 
when  dey  ain’t  got  nobody  else  he  kin  preach 
to  de  niggers  ’bout  de  dangers  ob  de  hen- 
roos’,  an’  de  watermillion  patch;  how  much 
is  I  offered  fur  dis  good  valuable  nigger?” 

Marlowe  bid  the  price  Staples  had  paid 
previously. 

“Gone!”  said  Uncle  Ben,  dismounting,  “de 
nigger  is  yourn.” 

“Hold  on,”  said  young  Napier,  the  judge, 
“that  isn’t  legal  and  just  to  the  owner;  you 
can’t  knock  yourself  down  on  one  bid;  you 
must  wait  for  the  second,  at  least.” 


A  MODERN  QUIXOTE 


89 


“How  much  is  I  offered  fur  dis  fine  ole  nig¬ 
ger?”  continued  that  individual,  getting  just 
a  little  anxious  now  as  to  his  fate. 

Some  one  else  made  a  bid  for  the  fun  of  the 
thing,  and  Marlowe  made  a  still  higher  one. 

“Is  dat  s’ficient?”  inquired  Uncle  Ben. 

“Yes,”  explained  Napier,  “but  don’t  close 
the  sale  too  quick,  give  the  buyers  a^hance.” 

“All  right,”  said  Uncle  Ben,  “but  if  de  right 
pusson  don’t  bid  de  highes’  price  dis  auction 
ain’t  gwine  ter  close  till  to-morrer  mornin’.” 

There  were  no  more  bids, and  he  announced: 

“I’m  goin,’  goin,’  gone  to  Mr.  Marlowe 
fur  de  highes’  bid,  and  cheap  at  half  de 
money.”  Uncle  Ben  was  henceforth  “one  o’ 
dem  stuck  up  Marlowe  niggers,”  whom  Aunt 
Viney  couldn’t  get  along  with  “nohow.” 


CHAPTER  VII 


The  hours  wore  on,  and  the  twilight  deep¬ 
ened  intomight — still  the  revelry  continued. 

Uncle  Ben  had  been  seated  in  a  farmer’s 
wagon,  and  consigned  to  the  Rev.  Duncan 
Marlowe  without  any  written  explanation; 
leaving  him  to  make  the  best  terms  he  could 
with  the  kind-hearted  clergyman. 

The  students  of  every  college  have  their 
peculiar  way  of  having  fun.  Those  of  the  S — 
college,  the  “M.  K’s,”  found  their  highest 
enjoyment  in  forming  themselves  into  a 
marauding  party  and  turning  the  town  topsy¬ 
turvy  on  Saturday  nights,  so  that  the  long- 
suffering  citizens,  on  the  morrow,  would  won¬ 
der  if  an  earthquake  had  visited  the  place 
during  the  night  or  set  them  to  doubting  that 
they,  themselves,  were  in  a  rational  state  of 
mind. 

Walter  Marlowe  astounded  them  all  this 
90 


A  MODERN  QUIXOTE 


91 


night  by  refusing  to  go  with  them,  as  he 
wished  to  return  home  with  the  major;  but  it 
was  voted  that  the  major  should  join  the 
party.  Then  came  a  difficulty;  the  major, 
in  his  capricious  mood,  insisted  that  Hank 
Staples  should  go  wherever  he  went;  so  the 
situation  was,  plainly,  to  either  admit  him  or 
lose  the  major,  and,  consequently,  Marlowe; 
so  they  chose  the  former  course.  Harry 
Napier  insisted  that  both  the  new-comers 
should  take  the  oath  of  the  “M.  K’s.” 

He  read  it  over  and  they  subscribed  to  it, 
the  oath  referring  to  the  one  night  only;  it 
did  not  admit  them  into  the  order  at  all;  that 
required  an  elaborate  formula.  This  was  the 
oath: 

“In  the  name  of  heaven,  and  in  the  pres¬ 
ence  of  you  my  companions,  I  do  solemnly 
swear  that  I  will  never  reveal  the  secrets  of 
this  night’s  work  so  long  as  I  shall  live,  so 
help  me  God !” 

And  these  fatal  words  they  repeated  because, 
in  their  blindness,  they  loved  the  exaggera¬ 
tion — the  solemn  tone  of  them; — idle  young 
fellows  who  had  nothing  else  to  do. 


92 


A  MODERN  QUIXOTE 


The  major,  who  was  wildly  hilarious  when 
his  changeable  mood  shifted  in  that  direction, 
said  he  considered  having  fun  the  inalienable 
right  of  all  young  men  at  college. 

“I  remember,”  said  the  major,  “about  ten 
years  ago,  when  the  Jinkins  boys  was  in  the 
‘M.  K’s.  ’  One  of  ’em  is  the  smartest  lawyer 
in  the  state  now,  and  stands  a  good  chance 
of  bein’  governor;  Clodious  Jinkins — ‘Clod,’ 
as  they  used  to  call  him — was  head  o’the  clan 
just  as  you  are  now,  Mr.  Napier.  Well,  one 
Saturday  night  jest  before  commencement — 
like  it  is  now — them  boys  went  out  to  have  a 
good  time,  and,  glory!  didn’t  they  make  this 
old  town  lively,  for  a  few  days!  Sunday 
mornin’  come,  and  the  folks  all  got  up  and 
commenced  to  git  ready  for  church.  The 
parson,  who  had  been  pretty  hard  on  the  S — 
boys  in  his  sermon,  had  on  his  best  clothes 
and  was  jest  washed  and  shaved  and  started 
out  for  a  mornin’  walk;  when  he  lifted  the 
latch,  his  hands  was  stuck  fast  with  tar,  ha! 
ha!  and  there  wasn’t  no  soap  'in  his  house 
that  could  take  it  off  before  church  time. 
Nearly  all  the  sign-boards  in  town  was  turned 


A  MODERN  QUIXOTE 


93 


upside  down;  the  front  steps  of  the  hotel 
was  oiled  so  slick  that  everybody  that  came 
out  set  down  before  they  got  invited  to,  and 
went  to  the  ground  like  boys  on  a  cellar 
door.  On  the  door  of  the  old  jail  up  there 
was  stickin’  the  placard  from  the  new  hotel 
sayin’  ‘handsome  new  lodgin’s  fitted  up  for 
guests,  and  all  the  delicacies  of  the  season 
without  extra  charge.  ’ 

“The  old  president  had  just  been  removed 
because  he  was  too  strict  with  the  boys, 
though  he  didn’t  do  nuthin’  but  enforce  the 
rules  as  he  found  ’em ;  but, you  see,  it  wouldn’t 
do  to  let  the  institution  git  unpopular;  so 
they  put  another  man  in  his  place;  and  the 
Saturday  which  I  was  speakin’  about,  the 
boys  burned  him  in  effigy — so  to  speak.  In 
the  middle  of  the  public  square,  there  is  where 
they  made  his  grave;  and  Sunday  mornin’ 
as  the  folks  went  to  church,  they  saw  a  fresh 
mound  o’  earth  and  a  white  painted  board  at 
the  head  of  it  on  which  was  wrote  the  fol¬ 
lowin’:  # 

“Sacred  to  the  memory  of 
President  Williams, 

who  was  killed  by  the  accidental  discharge  of 
his  duty. 


94 


A  MODERN  QUIXOTE 


“That  struck  me  as  bein’  pretty  funny,  as 
well  as  havin’  a  kind  of  rebuke  to  the  trustees 
down  in  the  heart  of  it.  Well,  I  tell  you 
they  didn’t  leave  no  stone  unturned  to  find 
out  the  feller  what  wrote  that.  They  fell  on 
one  young  man  and  thought  by  threatenin’ 
to  expel  him  and  disgrace  him,  they’d  make 
him  speak,  and  tell  who’d  done  it;  but  they 
didn't  and  the  poor  fellow  was  turned  out  in 
a  shameful  way.  ’Twas  pretty  hard  on  him, 
’specially  as  most  people  thought  ’twant  him 
’tall;  but  that  was  better  than  breakin’  that 
oath  what’s  been  kept  by  so  many  men;  for 
I  reckon  a  feller  wouldn’t  hardly  hold  up  his 
head  here  in  C —  if  he’d  broke  the  oath  of  the 
‘M.  K’s, ’ — you  know  how  it  is  yourselves; 
it’s  been  kept  so  long  that  it’s  got  to  be  a  sort 
of  feelin’  amongst  you  that  it  must  be  kep’ 
anyhow,  eh? 

“Well,  that  mornin’  I  jes’  went  on,  laughin’ 
fit  to  kill  myself,  when  I  spied  the  head  of 
‘Mose, ’  my  old  mule,  stickin’  out  o’  the 
second  story  winder  o’  the  court-house.  He 
was  blind,  most,  and  would  go  anywhere  they 
led  him,  an’  there  he  was  that  peaceful  Sun- 


A  MODERN  QUIXOTE 


95 


day  mornin’  stickin’  his  head  out  o’  the  win¬ 
der,  all  ring-streaked  and  striped,  from  his 
head  to  his  tail,  like  unto  a  zebry  in  the  circus. 
That  was  the  trick  they  played  on  me;  but  I 
didn’t  git  mad,  no,  not  a  whit;  I  believe  in 
the  boys  havin’  fun.” 

It  was  agreed  by  the  students  that  the  ma¬ 
jor  was  a  trump;  and  they  set  their  wits  to 
work  to  devise  some  mischief  to  eclipse,  if 
possible,  even  the  record  of  the  Jinkenses. 

The  major  said:  “I  know  you  boys  don’t 
mean  no  harm,  and  if  anybody  interferes  with 
you  jest  refer  ’em  to  us,  eh,  Hank?” 

“Thar’s  whar  you  are  solid,  maje,”  replied 
Mr.  Staples;  “we  stuck  together  at  ‘Cherry 
Gordy,  ’  an’  ‘Buner  Vistir,  ’  and  I  reckon  we 
kin  stick  to  the  boys  through  a  little  frolic 
like  this.” 

Some  one  proposed,  as  they  were  leaving 
Hartley’s,  to  drink  Mr.  Staples’  health  after 
such  a  chivalrous  speech;  but  Hank,  forget¬ 
ting  his  caution  in  his  delight  at  being  so  well 
into  the  major’s  good  graces  again, said:  “No, 
gentlemen,  ef  you  want  to  honor  me,  drink 
to  Laurie  McNaughton,  the  gal  what  I  love 
best.” 


96 


A  MODERN  QUIXOTE 


And  again,  for  the  second  time  that  night, 
Marlowe  was  upon  him.  He  spoke  in  an  un¬ 
dertone  so  that  only  a  few  heard  him.  “You 
impertinent  scoundrel!”  he  said,  (trembling 
in  the  effort  to  speak  low  and  avoid  attracting 
the  general  attention)  “if  you  speak  her  name 
in  my  presence  again,  I’ll  whip  you  until  you 
are  half  dead.” 

“Good  for  you,  Hank!” said  the  major,  who 
alone  understood  it  all;  “you’re  gettin’  too 
d —  impudent  lately;  keep  in  your  place  here¬ 
after  and  don’t  you  dare  to  say  them  words 
again — d’ye  hear?” 

Then  the  marauders  started  on  their  rounds, 
the  major  having  many  a  laugh  at  the  ludi¬ 
crous  things  they  did;  but  Hank  Staples  stood 
aside,  sullenly  muttering  between  his  teeth: 
“Go  ahead  and  have  your  fun  now,  yer  stuck- 
up  swells!  my  turn’ll  come  one  o’ these  days.” 

They  had  fun  to  their  hearts’  content;  but 
as  the  town  clock  stuck  two,  the  major  sud¬ 
denly  grew  tired  of  it  all,  and  said  he  was  go¬ 
ing  home;  and  Walter  could  not  be  dissuaded 
from  his  purpose  to  accompany  him.  He 
had  arrived  too  late  to  prevent  the  degrada- 


A  MODERN  QUIXOTE 


97 


tion  that  Laurie  had  feared;  but  he  would  do 
all  he  could — he  would  at  least  see  that  he  re¬ 
turned  to  his  home  in  safety.  So  the  whole 
party  agreed  to  escort  them  also.  This  ar¬ 
ranged,  they  started  on  their  journey  in  great 
glee;  there  were,  besides  Major  McNaugbton 
and  Hank  Staples,  six  of  the  students;  all  the 
five  were  to  graduate  with  Marlowe  in  a  few 
weeks. 

They  answered,  at  roll  call,  to  the  names 
of  Arthur  Dalton,  Ernest  Caldwell,  Randolph 
King,  Lewis  Holbrook,  Walter  Marlowe  and 
Harry  Napier.  With  the  exception  of  Staples, 
they  were  all  well  mounted.  The  old  Senora, 
wonderful,  for  one  of  her  great  age,  showed 
to  no  disadvantage  among  the  array  of  mag¬ 
nificent  animals,  but  held  her  own  nobly. 
Harry  Napier  rode  his  famous  coal-black 
mare. 

Harry  Napier  the  peerless!  How  long  and 
how  well  the  people  remembered  him — erect, 
and  lithe  of  limb — they  said  he  had  the  dark¬ 
est  blue  eyes  they  ever  saw,  and  hair  of  a  rich 
chestnut  brown,  thrown  back  from  his  fore¬ 
head  and  falling  in  heavy  clusters  about  his 
7 


g8 


A  MODERN  QUIXOTE 


neck.  He  was  a  stranger  to  fear,  malice  and 
meanness,  and  without  an  enemy  in  the  world. 
Yet  he  was  the  outlaw  of  the  neighbor¬ 
hood.  They  said,  too,  that  they  had  seen 
him  do  such  deeds  of  foolhardiness,  and  come 
through  them,  that  they  had  come  almost  to 
think  him  invincible  to  harm. 

His  father,  the  judge,  who,  in  his  heart, 
every  one  knew  idolized  the  boy,  often  sen¬ 
tenced  him  to  be  locked  up  over  night  for 
some  disturbance  of  the  peace;  but  it  always 
so  happened  that  no  constable  could  be  found 
able  to  execute  the  order.  There  was  not  one 
of  them  who  would  not  have  abused  his 
office,  to  some  extent,  for  love  of  the  wild, 
but  generous-hearted  young  fellow.  He  was 
the  leading  spirit  to-night. 

Marlowe,  noticing  him  carefully,  thought 
he  had  taken  more  wine  than  usual;  in  fact 
Marlowe  himself  was  the  only  one  in  the 
party  exempt  from  the  same  charge.  He  tried 
to  conceal  from  the  major  that  he  was  acting 
according  to  a  promise  made  to  Laurie;  he 
knew  the  father  well  enough  to  feel  sure  that 
he  would  resent  the  idea  of  surveillance;  but 


A  MODERN  QUIXOTE 


99 


still  he  kept  close  to  him.  The  major  would 
break  out  into  a  most  hilarious  manner  occa¬ 
sionally,  but  Marlowe,  who  watched  him 
closely  also,  could  not  escape  the  impression 
that  the  greater  part  of  it  was  forced;  he  was 
trying  to  drown  unpleasant  thoughts,  evi¬ 
dently,  but  the  experiences  of  the  day  had 
left  a  sore  spot  very  near  the  surface,  and 
woe  to  the  hand  that  should  touch  it! 

Their  waylay  across  a  small  river  which,  at 
certain  places,  could  be  safely  forded.  Old 
“Senora,”the  mare,  had  crossed  it  and  carried 
her  master  safely  over,  a  thousand  times;  but 
there  were  certain  inequalities  in  the  bed  of 
the  river  which  were  to  b6  carefully  avoided 
and,  at  a  little  distance  from  the  ford,  there 
were  several  deep  holes,  supposed  to  be  too 
well  known  to  require  a  mark.  The  old  mare 
herself,  would  have  known  how  to  pick  her 
way  safely  across,  but  she  had  never  crossed 
it  in  such  company  before. 

The  mad  cavalcade  dashed  in  without  a 
moment’s  hesitation,  Marlowe  riding  close  to 
the  major, — and  in  a  few  minutes  they  were 
climbing  the  bank  on  the  other  side — all  but 


IOO 


A  MODERN  QUIXOTE 


two.  Senora  had  gotten  into  the  treacherous 
pitfalls  and  lost  her  footing;  she  fell,  precipi¬ 
tating  her  rider  into  the  water.  Marlowe 
shouted  to  the  others  to  stop,  and  in  a  very 
few  minutes  they  got  the  major  ashore, 
thoroughly  soaked,  thoroughly  angry,  and 
swearing  like  a  trooper  for  his  horse.  But  the 
faithful  creature  was  fast  getting  beyond  help. 
Below  the  ford  there  was  a  fall  in  the  river, 
and  being  badly  hurt  and  unable  to  swim  she 
went  swiftly  towards  it. 

The  night  was  dark,  and  her  master  dazed 
and  maddened  by  the  brandy  he  had  drunk. 

“Where  is  my  horse?”  he  shouted.  “Bring 
me  my  horse,  you  scoundrels!”  A  horrible 
fear  enraged  him. 

“Senora,  my  girl!”  he  called  to  her,  and 
started  towards  the  ford  again.  The  mare, 
now  near  the  fall,  and  plunging  helplessly, 
answered  him  in  a  wild  shrieking  neigh.  Have 
you  ever  heard  the  cry  of  a  drowning  horse? 
Those  who  have,  pray  that  they  may  never 
hear  it  again.  Her  master  realized  that  she 
was  going  to  her  death;  with  a  deep  curse, 
he  staggered  forward  in  a  mad  impulse  to 


A  MODERN  QUIXOTE 


IOI 


save  her.  This  would  have  been  suicide;  few 
swimmers,  in  best  condition,  could  have  with¬ 
stood  the  strong  current  just  above  the  fall. 

Marlowe  had  done  his  best ;  two  strong  arms 
went  round  the  major’s  waist  and  held  him 
back.  He  struggled  desperately  to  loosen  the 
grasp,  now  thoroughly  angry,  but  it  was  firm 
as  iron.  His  idolized  horse — his  darling  Se- 
nora — was  dying  before  his  eyes,  and  he  could 
not  stir  to  her  rescue.  In  the  brief  instant  in 
which  he  heard  her  terrible  neighing,  and  stood 
there,  pinioned,  past  scenes  arose  before  his 
eyes  with  the  swiftness  of  thought — the 
bloody  battles  of  Mexico  through  which  the 
gallant  mare  had  borne  him,  answering  like  a 
child  to  each  touch,  each  word;  all  the  thrill¬ 
ing  scenes  of  danger  when  her  fleet  limbs  had 
brought  him  with  a  speed  like  the  wind;  now 
the  noble  beauty — next  to  Laurie,  the  pride 
of  his  heart — was  struggling  in  the  dark  water, 
and  he  stood  there  helpless. 

“Let  me  go!”  he  shouted  once  more,  with 
a  terrible  oath,  but  the  others  gathered 
around  him  and  held  him  back;  they  knew  it 
would  be  death  to  him  if  they  let  him  go. 


102 


A  MODERN  QUIXOTE 


Then,  as  their  eyes  grew  more  accustomed  to 
the  darkness  down  the  stream,  they  saw  her, 
with  a  convulsive  effort  to  gain  a  footing,  go 
over  the  rocks. 

That  was  the  end;  the  death  scream,  as 
the  waters  swept  her  over,  struck  horror  to 
the  heart  of  every  man  on  the  bank.  When 
her  master  saw  that  she  was  gone  he  turned 
upon  the  men  who  had  held  him,  with  the 
rage  of  a  tiger  in  his  motions. 

“See,  you  have  killed  her!”  he  shouted. 
“You  scoundrels!  now  let  me  go!”  He  was 
mad  with  conflicting  emotions;  in  a  moment 
he  had  wrenched  himself  free,  and  struck  the 
young  man  who  had  held  him  heavily  across 
the  face  with  the  riding-whip  which  he  still 
held  in  his  hand.  The  movement  was  so  un¬ 
expected  that  before  they  could  disarm  him 
of  the  whip  he  had  dealt  several  stinging, 
lacerating  blows  with  it  and  the  insult  was  an¬ 
swered.  A  stiletto-like  blade  flashed  in  the 
air,  and,  though  many  arms  were  interposed, 
they  were  too  late  to  arrest  it;  the  blade  was 
buried  in  the  major’s  breast,  and  the  gallant 
horse  and  her  once  dashing  rider  went  to  their 
death  together,  after  all. 


A  STILETTO-LIKE  BLADE  FLASHED  IN  THE  AIR, 


CHAPTER  VIII 


The  wreck  of  a  late  moon  arose  above  the 
river  bank,  and  looked  upon  the  white  face 
of  Marshall  McNaughton  as  he  lay,  tranquil 
and  composed,  under  the  sky  of  the  summer 
night,  as  though  a  loving  hand  had  arranged 
the  disheveled  garments  for  peaceful  burial. 
None,  looking  at  the  quiet  face  alone,  would 
have  thought  of  violence  and  murder;  death 
had  done  its  greatest  work  here,  as  so  often 
happens  to  the  face  that  does  not  fear  it. 

It  was  again  the  face  of  the  gallant  soldier 
of  Cerro  Gordo,  lying  upon  the  cool  earth 
with  a  dark  wound  beneath  the  folded  hands, 
as  he  had  dreamed  that  he  might  lie  in  death 
upon  some  battle  plain  under  the  sky  of  old 
Mexico.  Yet  they  had  called  it  a  kind  fate 
that  spared  the  young  soldier  on  the  field  of 
honor!  Nature  had  made  him  for  a  soldier; 
death  became  him  better  than  life.  This 
103 


104 


A  MODERN  QUIXOTE 


deadly  fairness  brought  out  a  wonderful  like¬ 
ness  between  this  and  another  face  just  be¬ 
yond  the  river  and  up  through  the  grove,  not 
a  mile  from  the  fatal  spot.  The  same  moon¬ 
light  fell  upon  them,  the  same  night  breeze 
kissed  them,  first  one  and  then  the  other  as  it 
wandered  to  and  fro,  fragrant  with  the  odors 
of  the  summer  night;  both  unconscious — 
both  asleep. 

Laurie  had  watched  for  her  father  through 
the  long  afternoon,  sitting  by  the  bend  where 
she  could  see  him  first,  Carlo’s  head  resting 
on  her  knee;  she  had  no  anxiety  about  him 
to-day;  was  not  Walter  with  him? 

“We  can  always  trust  Walter,  can’t  we, 
Carlo?”  This  hitherto  neglected  companion 
gave  a  joyous  bark  in  answer  to  the  beloved 
name.  He  took  his  seat  beside  her,  remem¬ 
bering  his  master’s  charge.  He  laid  his  head 
in  her  lap  and  prepared  for  a  doze,  keeping 
the  corner  of  one  eye  open,  however,  in  order 
to  be  up  with  any  stray  farmer’s  dog  that 
might  come  along,  and  receiving  Laurie’s 
caresses  as  philosophically  as  though  he  had 
known  they  were  meant  for  some  one  else. 


A  MODERN  QUIXOTE 


105 

This  watch  continued  until  the  sun  got  very 
low  in  the  west;  and  she  began  then  to  feel 
a  keen  disappointment.  She  had  thought 
Walter  would  bring  him  earlier  this  time. 

“But  they  will  come,  Carlo — they  will 
come,”  she  kept  saying  over  and  over.  Carlo 
thought  they  would.  She  said  to  herself,  “In 
a  few  moments  more  the  sun  will  be  behind 
that  hill;  by  that  time  they  will  come,  I  know 
they  will;  we  will  wait  that  long  and  then — 
go  in.” 

Just  as  the  reddening  sun  touched  the  sum¬ 
mit,  she  heard  the  long  expected  sound  of 
horse’s  feet;  she  stood  behind  the  trees  by 
the  bend  with  her  hand  on  Carlo’s  collar,  and 
waited;  but  her  cheek  blanched  to  a  deathly 
whiteness  when  the  sound  passed  by,  along 
the  main  road,  and  she  heard  the  strange  voices 
of  the  horsemen. 

“Must  have  been  a  fine  old  place  in  its 
day,”  said  one. 

“Yes,”  replied  the  other  voice, “there  wasn’t 
a  finer  place  in  the  state  twenty  year  ago 
but  it’s  been  a  runnin’  down  pretty  fast  here 
lately.  Reck’n  things  was  at  a  pretty  low 


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A  MODERN  QUIXOTE 


ebb  when  he  put  up  that  old  nigger  for  sale.” 

“Yes,  he  peared  moughty  cut  up  ’bout  it; 
well,  I  reck’n — ”  They  passed  out  of  hear¬ 
ing,  two  neighboring  farmers  on  their  way 
home  from  the  sale. 

The  girl  put  a  little  hand  on  her  heart  in  a 
pathetic  gesture  of  pain;  she  thought  at  first 
they  were  talking  of  her  own  father;  but  the 
reference  to  the  selling  of  a  negro,  that  re¬ 
lieved  her  mind;  of  course  they  were  talking 
of  some  other  family.  But  it  was  getting  late 
and  she  must  go.  Still  no  sign  of  horse  or 
rider  on  the  now  darkening  road. 

“Come,  Carlo,”  she  said;  and  with  the 
deepest  sigh  her  young  lips  had  ever  yet 
breathed,  she  abandoned  the  watch,  and 
went,  with  slow  and  heavy  steps,  towards  the 
house;  trying,  oh,  so  hard!  not  to  doubt  her 
lover.  Supper  was  a  pretense.  “Why, 
Honey,  what  make  you  take  on  so?”  old 
Viney  asked,  looking  at  the  pale  face  ruefully, 
her  arms  akimbo.  “Dis  ain’t  de  fust  time  what 
yer  pa  did’n  come  home.” 

Poor  little  girl!  she  was  trying  to  be  brave, 
but  she  had  been  so  disappointed;  the  tears 


A  MODERN  QUIXOTE 


107 


were  very  near  the  surface,  and  at  the  first 
touch  of  sympathy  they  overflowed.  “Oh, 
mammy!”  she  whispered,  as  she  clung  round 
the  old  nurse’s  neck,  lest  the  spirits  of  the  air 
should  hear  her  blame  him,  “but  Walter 
promised  he  would  bring  him  to  me;  I  wish 
Uncle  Ben  were  here — where  is  he?” 

“Nebber  min’,  Honey — nebber  min’;”  said 
the  old  creature,  trying  to  reassure  her,  though 
her  own  heart  was  very  heavy.  She  knew 
that  Uncle  Ben  would  come  no  more  in  the 
old  way.  “My  ’pinion  is,”  she  began  after  a 
little,  as  she  was  clearing  away  the  untasted 
supper,  “dat  Mas’r  Walter  done  struck  up  wid 
dem  college  chaps  o’  hisen,  and  deys  gone 
off  on  some  o’  dere  sky-larkin’ — ” 

“Oh,  mammy!” 

“Nebber  min’,  Honey;  I  knows  all  ’bout  it; 

I  tink  Mas’r  Walter  mighty  fine  gem’man  .too, 
but  ef  you  gits  a  husband  what  don’ git  drunk 
’cepin’  on  Sat’days  you’s  gwine  ter  be  power¬ 
ful  lucky — you  is.” 

But  Laurie  refused  to  take  this  novel  con¬ 
solation.  She  sat  by  an  open  window  and 
watched  the  road  until  the  twilight  deepened 


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A  MODERN  QUIXOTE 


into  night;  still  they  did  not  come,  and  still 
she  did  not  stir.  The  old  nurse  tried  all  her 
powers  of  intimidation  first,  of  persuasion 
afterwards,  but  Laurie  shook  her  head,  too 
full  to  speak,  and  would  not  go. 

So  Aunt  Viney  sat  down  at  last  to  share 
her  watch,  and  in  a  few  minutes,  after  the 
toils  of  the  day,  was  sleeping  heavily  in  her 
corner  The  window  at  which  Laurie  sat 
was  a  wide,  low  one,  opening  to  the  east. 
One  arm  was  round  the  huge  dog’s  neck,  and 
her  tear-stained  cheek  was  laid  upon  the 
other,  which  rested  on  the  window-sill.  The 
hours  wore  on  and  the  sighs  which  broke  poor 
Carlo’s  heart  gradually  ceased.  The  young 
eyes,  unused  to  watching  and  to  grief,  slowly 
closed,  and  Laurie,  thinking  only  that  her 
lover  had  forgotten  his  promise,  had  cried 
herself  to  sleep. 

She  was  sleeping  thus,  her  head  upon  the 
folded  white  arm,  when  the  moon  rose,  first 
upon  the  major’s  dead  face  by  the  river’s 
brink,  and  touched  the  girl’s  bent  head  with 
its  waning  light;  it  shone  into  the  eyes  of  the 
only  waking  watcher  there,  old  Carlo — who, 


A  MODERN  QUIXOTE 


109 


in  the  prescience  of  his  great  race,  foresaw 
misfortune,  and  would  not  quit  his  place  by 
Laurie’s  side. 

He  sat  there  through  the  long  hours  of 
night,  his  nose  pointed  upward  to  the  moon, 
and  his  silken  ears  falling  back,  while  a  look 
of  human  wistfulness  shone  through  his  eyes. 
The  only  sign  of  restlessness  he  betrayed  was 
that  now  and  then  he  would  take  one  white- 
mittened  paw  from  the  girl’s  knee  and  put  up 
the  other;  and  there  he  kept  his  charge, 
faithful  where  the  master  had  failed — wakeful 
while  the  daughter  slept.  At  length  the  fair 
summer  dawn  broke  in  the  east;  and  still 
Laurie  slept  the  sleep  of  youth. 

Old  Viney  woke  with  the  first  streak  of 
light  and  went  on  tiptoe  to  another  room, 
brought  a  light  shawl,  and,  with  love’s  gentle 
touch,  laid  it  around  her  darling’s  shoulders, 
and  went  softly  out  to  her  tasks.  She  patted 
Carlo  on  the  head  and  left  them  together. 
The  light  slowly  broadened  and  brightened 
on  the  scene,  and  the  peaceful  Sabbath  morn¬ 
ing  had  begun  its  reign  upon  the  earth. 

Aunt  Viney  went  about  her  task  of  getting 


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A  MODERN  QUIXOTE 


breakfast,  her  mind  far  from  being  in  harmony 
with  the  serenity  of  the  new  day.  She  was 
oppressed  with  a  persistent  foreboding;  she 
had  energetically  characterized  herself  “an 
ole  black  fool”  many  times,  but,  sing  as  she 
would,  the  feeling  would  not  be  gone. 

She  had  certainly  succeeded  in  working 
herself  into  a  very  hysterical  state,  for  when 
she  looked  up  from  blowing  the  smoldering 
chunks  into  a  blaze,  and  saw  the  familiar  face 
of  Uncle  Ben  looking  silently  in  through  the 
kitchen  window,  she  uttered  an  ear-piercing 
shriek  and  dropped  her  head  between  her 
knees  in  true  African  fashion.  When  he  spoke 
in  his  earthly  voice,  however,  and  convinced 
her  there  was  nothing  supernatural  about  the 
apparition,  she  arose  and  went  about  her 
work  just  as  though  nothing  had  happened. 

“Come  in,  Unc’  Ben,”  she  said,  “an’  tell 
somebody  whar  you’s  come  from.  ’Fore 
Gawd!  What  you  want  ter  be  skeerin’  folks 
outen  dere  min’s  fur,  lookin’indat  kin  o’quiet 
like,  as  if  you  jes’  drop  from  de  sky  or  som- 
’ers?” 

“Well,  fur  de  Lawd’s  sake,  Sis’  Viney,  you 


A  MODERN  QUIXOTE 


III 


don’  mean  ter  tell  me  yer  ain’t  h’yearn  nuffin 
’bout  it?”  replied  the  visitor,  as  he  entered 
(with  a  newly  acquired  dignity,  Aunt  Vieny 
thought,)  placed  his  hat  and  stick  on  the  floor, 
and  parting  the  tails  of  a  long  black  coat,  al¬ 
so  newly  acquired,  took  his  seat  on  the  most 
available  stool.  Aunt  Viney,  without  appear¬ 
ing  to  take  much  notice,  was  watching  him 
keenly  out  of  the  corner  of  her  eyes. 

“Ain’t  you  dun  h’yearn  nuffln’bout  my  bein’ 
sol’  to  dat  Hank  Staples?”  he  continued. 
That  brought  her  around. 

“What!”  she  screamed,  facing  about  and 
staring  at  the  speaker;  and,  with  open  eyes 
and  mouth,  and  hands  on  her  hips,  she  drank 
in  the  rest  of  the  story. 

If  there  was  anything  the  old  fellow  really 
loved,  it  was  an  audience,  and  a  good  story 
with  which  to  regale  it.  He  made  the  most 
of  this  melancholy  occasion,  and  went  on  to 
give  Aunt  Viney,  in  the  main,  a  pretty  correct 
account  of  the  day’s  proceedings,  after  what 
flourish  his  nature  would;  he  was  worked  up 
to  such  a  state  of  excitement  during  the  re¬ 
cital  of  his  experiences  that  he  lost  sight,  for 


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A  MODERN  QUIXOTE 


the  time  being,  of  his  present  errand.  He 
came  back  to  it  with  a  shock  of  recollection. 

“But  see  yere,  Sis’  Viney,”  he  began  in  a 
changed  tone,  “what  you  tink  when  I  tells  you 
Mas’r  Walter  ain’t  dun  been  home  all  night? 
I  h’yeard  the  ole  gem’man  git  up  more’n 
wunst  in  de  night  and  go  tiptoein’  to  his 
room  ter  see  ef  he  wuz  dere.  I  had  a  pallet 
down  in  de  study  for  dat  night,  an’  I  could’ n 
sleep  nuther,  kase  I  got  to  tinkin’  ’bout  all 
de  strange  circumstancials  what’s  been  hap¬ 
penin’  lately,  and  so  I  h’yeard  him  shet  de 
do’  wid  a  awful  sigh  an’  go  back  to  his  own 
room.  I  don’  b’leive  he  slep’  none  ’tall  all  de 
night  long,  fur  he  wuz  up  walkin’  in  de  gyard- 
ing  jes’  arter  daylight,  but  he  nebber  let  on, 
an’  when  he  seed  me,  he  jes’sez  to  me,  smilin’ 
at  me  kin’  o’  quiet  like  over  his  specs,  ‘Well, 
Unc’  Ben,  don’  you  want  ter  go  over  ter  see 
how  yer  folks  is  gittin’  ’long  at  de  ole  place 
dis  mornin’?’  I  ’lowed  as  how  I’d  be  powerful 
glad  to  go,  an’  when  I  was  goin’  out  de  gate, 
he  sez,  kin'  o’  offhand-like — “Say,  Unc’  Ben, 
you  kin  jes’  ask  ’em  ef  Mr.  Walter  wuz  wid 
de  major  when  he  kum  home  las’  night.’” 


